I'm not averse to advise in verse, unless of course it's adverse advice (or was that vise-versa....)

Zachary, my life's creation,
happy in your perambulation.
I daily watch your life unfold,
As if a story being told.
But someday I'll be dead and gone,
You'll have to know your right from wrong.
Perhaps taking from my advice,
On, "What To Do When The World's Not Nice?"
If you're alone and feeling sad,
in need of comfort from your Dad.
You'll hear a whisper in your ear,
"I love you son and have no fear".
Know it's I who speaks to you,
and watches over what you do.

Rising Son

The summer solstice means the days are longer,
Your cry is slight at first, but then it's stronger.

And early vivid sunlight hits your eyes,
The sun has risen; thus the Son must rise.

As you attempt to yank me from my bed,
I shield my face, you kick my nuts instead.

Your voice rings forth in obstinate soprano,
Before too long, you're at your toy piano.

I'd drag a rusty blade across my cheek,
I'd snorkel in a cesspool for a week.

Or shove a red-hot poker through my spleen
If you would only sleep past 6:15

Working

In order to better make ends meet, I will inevitably need to go back to work. Making ends meet is one of my favorite cliche's. We all want to make ends meet. We endlessly struggle to avoid the emptiness of that breach.

What, you ask, lies in-between those disconnected ends of pecuniary responsibility?

This.

The Boy With the Golden Tongue

*DISCLAIMER* Lesley does not like the following post. She maintains that it's too wordy and complicated. Considering the history of my wife's opinion on all things, she's probably right. Be that as it may, I remembered my love for her or my son does not require anyone's approval.

All of you, try to understand, I want my love to tear through Zachary's skin and attack his bones. Truly, much of what I post on this blog will likely someday cause embarrassment to my son that he will no doubt describe as, "Mortifying beyond comprehension". Maybe he'll even hate me for it...

You know what? Tough shit.

He should have seen my Dad in sweatpants.

Which reminds me; We are now accepting donations to Zachary's "Therapy Fund"
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"Dadda"


Many years ago Zach, your Uncle Kris described to me an interesting branch of philosophy that denies the essential existence of things. They don't believe that the world existed first and that mankind went around naming everything second. Rather, they believe that the existence of a thing is bound up in language, that, for instance, a tree was called into Being by uttering the word "Tree". This is tough stuff to get your head around because there's a place where reason fails you and something else is required. But I know it's true Zachary. I know in my heart it's true.

Because you spoke me.

Do you understand, boy? Please understand this someday. I was a disparate collection of blurry fragments until you uttered me into the world. You spoke me. You said "Dadda" and called forth a Dad out of the teeming formless void. The word "Dad" blurred the myriad distinctions in the impermanent march of ceaseless change and instituted my emergence: a somebody, a Dad in service to his Son. You Dadded me. The who of who I am coheres in your world. I am the plaything of your speech.

The mouth of the Child gives birth to the Dad. You made me a man, little boy, with the sound of your newly emerging voice.

So this morning, today, Father's Day is not just about me. Its about you.

You are the boy with the magical golden tongue.