Froth just out, only bond
itself. Our time together was best avoided. Eat the hours. Get alone your shed for hours, Dad. He's rods to gone. At the lake awake I
knew drink, would
again. Beers down again as before, curdled flesh as ashes drifting from the shore, vomit. Blurring our eyes couldn't content, got our whiskey to share with the rangers, tipping our hats time and time again to them as we swayed slowly by the boat. Really swaying I groggily
would express something to Dad's heart, the pills come out. We had an old row when not with tongue. Saying "literati" once, defiant,
finally I launch the boat, putting the truck in reverse. Our old dog was slow. He shivered sacred death, cheers to that. We were afternoon. I was hours. Up row lake, time when memories never it felt all lines and matter were one Whitman something. Very familial, fishing.
Finally getting one and not smiling about it, Dad talked about football to no one. I didn't respond. Feeling uncultured Dad warned me, "Thoreau me once, boy, and you'll wake up untouchable and sunburnt sideways by the shore." He didn't cast sugared sayings. What he was driving at was beyond the tacklebox, the boat, the fish that would steam on the fire alive, too lazy to kill them. There were mornings he stood solitary for hours, aspiring gone, Just basking in the sacred weird. He'd forget his coffee and drink it black and cold, savoring bitter froth on cracked lips, the sacrament spilling brown down his shirt like old blood stains, cheap transubstantiation he said, taking a stale crust and spitting crumbs of flesh (pontifex) over everything. Cockroaches caught them and were saved. But back to hooks and lines. Some lake we were working with, dawn gone, locked in noon. The lake was deeper than our rods and eyes, at bottom anonymous matter crawled their steps and ate scum. Above we took up fish and turned their matter nameless too, dried gills suffocating slowly. At the shore their bodies were disemboweled and met fire like martyrs. Teeth tucked into their flesh and seamlessly interred them in our guts so Dad and I could stare our silent hate at each other with their curdled energy in our shared blood, Christ and all.
Finally getting one and not smiling about it, Dad talked about football to no one. I didn't respond. Feeling uncultured Dad warned me, "Thoreau me once, boy, and you'll wake up untouchable and sunburnt sideways by the shore." He didn't cast sugared sayings. What he was driving at was beyond the tacklebox, the boat, the fish that would steam on the fire alive, too lazy to kill them. There were mornings he stood solitary for hours, aspiring gone, Just basking in the sacred weird. He'd forget his coffee and drink it black and cold, savoring bitter froth on cracked lips, the sacrament spilling brown down his shirt like old blood stains, cheap transubstantiation he said, taking a stale crust and spitting crumbs of flesh (pontifex) over everything. Cockroaches caught them and were saved. But back to hooks and lines. Some lake we were working with, dawn gone, locked in noon. The lake was deeper than our rods and eyes, at bottom anonymous matter crawled their steps and ate scum. Above we took up fish and turned their matter nameless too, dried gills suffocating slowly. At the shore their bodies were disemboweled and met fire like martyrs. Teeth tucked into their flesh and seamlessly interred them in our guts so Dad and I could stare our silent hate at each other with their curdled energy in our shared blood, Christ and all.
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