thanksgiving

or fuck you dad and the corpse you rode in on

andy was right put anger where it’s due thirty years and still i’m held by the spell of being “son”

from my marrow springs necrophilic yearning to ignore the obvious, frantic the corpse should live while blue lips read zero

a marked man now a father i answer to duty bring my kin to the house that had no room to hold me

we suffer the Throgs Neck to appear in your picture i bring you my blood to fill out your portrait we paint on some smiles and swallow our memories

my bone is not yours so i shun the mark i go by my own and try to share the spell of my art

and i bring and i offer more than just pictures you answer with snoring and backyard derision

as thin as it is my concern for your will yanks me like a hook in my ass

is it for nikko—whose name you refuse to pronounce— that i can’t or won’t snap this damn tether?

you hack at my pride from polar directions too stubborn, too lazy too stupid, too smart

i bore out my head make excuses for you on and on i strip my onion thin skin till naked, no pearl only wet eyes mine

too stubborn to admit death too lazy to bury it too stupid to see sooner still too smart to hate you

so i suffer my real blood your insults my muse your tin ear i choke on hope for your money

while you set your alarms sit in your wealth with nothing worth stealing and holes in your portraits

                      *Frank Drake*