My parents beat me,
(morally speaking)
over the head,
with a bat out of hell;
mass-produced to scare me,
I suppose.
But.
Can’t teach a new dog old tricks,
like the gods’-honest truth.
The(ir) reality is:
they wanted me to be
the better them they
couldn’t, by Christ, be.
Well:
they succeeded.
And will be
succeeded
by their atheist, sonless son,
born of Catholic guilt,
with a soul of poetry,
forged in the flame
of admonished acts,
not wishful words.
A pair of lies
none’s eyes can,
but in a mirror, recognize;
the incognito cogito:
“I think, I am alone; therefore I am.”
But their mission was not missed,
even if the prophet sparked not
in what I wouldn’t call my soul.
Because I internalized the message,
screaming out from between the lines
that closed ears and eyes in pulpit lines
couldn’t help but never hear:
“Be kind, whenever you can, man.
And when you can’t?
Shit – burden yourself right,
so that you might
become that better man
who can.”
I told my Dad:
my transcendence is the same
damn thing as his God,
according to existential translation.
Vehemently,
He nodded yes,
Like one couldn’t not know,
that shrugging off,
a Father’s yoke,
was the Son’s Oedipal
transubstantiation.