A Distilled Narrative: Weekends At Dad's.

This piece is closer to a poem but I’m going to call it a distilled narrative. I don’t write much poetry and I’m sure folks who do write poetry will scoff. I’m sure I’ve missed something important, some opportunity in the language or structure. I must have missed something because I submitted this to a zine maker and it was rejected. Rejection sucks. But I know deep down that rejection is part of this game. And I still get to publish my own work and see it mean something to someone, even if that someone isn’t the someone who decides to accept or reject it for whatever publication. Anyhow, enjoy this poor little reject. A Distilled Narrative: Weekends At Dad’s.

What we consumed.  

What he consumed.  

Sweating. Thirsty. Ticks crawling. Hunger deep in my ribs. Small hands raw and blistered. Headaches.

We were babies. He worked us hard. He worked us all day. Carried cinder blocks. Big shovel-fulls of dirt.

Garlic. Lots of garlic. White rice. Broccoli. Onions. Wheat bread. Mayonnaise. Cheddar cheese. Too-ripe oranges. Plain oatmeal. Shark steaks. Olive oil. Salmon. Butter. Beer-barbequed chicken cooked on a grate teetering delicately on sandstone chunks pulled from the leaves.

Black coffee. Corona. Boxed red wine.

We ate like the rich people did. That’s what he said.

Green Grolsch bottles with the swing top.

Salty Tostito chips dipped in the salsa juice. Yellow Gatorade. MREs. Tabasco. Little Caesar’s Pizza. Ben and Jerry’s. Mountain Dew. Pepsi. Gumballs from the Hubbards’. The Hardee’s near the armory in Clarksburg. Those fries.

Rattlesnakes between feet. Nails through feet. Hot chainsaw engine against feet.

Shins on rock. Branch into face. Mouthful of dirt. Iodine. Peroxide.  

What he consumed.  

What we consumed.