Superstition
gripped him, holding
evil
grasp on his freedom.
Said,
"My family is superstitious,
I
cannot escape it."
"Daily
anxiety creates fear
inside
so I do not go outside easily."
"Psychologists
have words for this thing
that
fetters my life."
His
testimony is honest,
seeking
freedom from the spirits
enslaving.
Now
after these confessions,
goes,
and I see him anew,
chained.
Audio reading of the poem by the poet is here:
After the incident on the quiet street in the perfect house
Peter Menkin - Jul 6, 2001
Daddy went into the night
in the nice neighborhood.
Too much stained glass,
making colors, cutting shapes.
I guess.
He was an artist.
The door was left open.
She yelled something, his wife
did.
When I passed the house
years ago, soon after,
there was something
that happened there.
Sad, bad night.
The worst I saw him do
was put his boots up on the glass
table in my living room.
He was larger than life,
wanting to embrace even
the Bay.
Pick it up! Golden Gate Bridge,
and all.
His!
He went to Berkeley, and then
you could hitchhike to the University
everyday to your job.
Ride share.
After the incident done
before the children,
he took a job as a deckhand
on the ferryboat. Larkspur, CA.
Madness. Disaster.
His mother was a doctor,
M.D. type, and so was his
father, M.D. type. She
talked to him, in the
family home--
He threw her television
set out the second story
window.
