He looks more like his grandfather with each falling away day. Generating will and confidence, his feet dance over coals and betwixt shards, arabesquing and transcending above his tentative crawling of dissolving yesterdays.
His voice becomes clear and profound, redolent of sweet lyric alternating with rapier sarcasm as his ever widening irises drink in the world before him, brimming with flights of constant decay and eternal blessings of conception of the next potential miracle. It, like he, attempting to understand their unfolding self's.
He holds my hand less and less these days. Preferring instead the adventure of his untold story as opposed to the tales and lullabies we once shared at his bedside. I am an echo of his grandfather as he is a repercussion of me.
We would play in the tides, galavanting upon the carpet laid before incoming white caps of great mother ocean, crashing and ebbing amid seashells, deconstructed sun beams and flashings of porpoise fins across the far away surface concealing the depths beneath of great father time.
When
I was little
I sat
at his
draughtsman's
table
He taught me
the proper use
of the compass
and protractor
correct applications
of the slide rule
finer points
of the ruling pen
elegance inherent
in the eclipse templates
permanence
of india ink
culminating
in the alchemy
of cartography
Because
if you can map it
on paper son
you can walk
that bastard through life
and no son of a bitch
can prove you wrong
Because
I have my map
and what do you have?
you'll say
and
when the gap toothed
cocksucker
stands there
stammering
and answerless
you can kick
his ass
in the goddamn ball sack
and be
on your merry way
he said
when I sat
on his lap
learning
to properly position
a T square
gliding a 30 degree angle
astride its horizon
ink flowing seamlessly
from the tip
of my speedball
with a grace
I would not feel again
until
I danced ballet
on a big stage
and
when we conceived
our children
in sweltering midnights
when I knew
my love and I
had greater plans
A map
of our biology
that pierced the veil
into
the next world
and our children
would sit
upon our laps
we
guiding their hands
stroking their hair
out
of newborn eyes
finding
blindly together
lines and patterns
from this world
to the next
No
son of a bitch
can provide
blockade
to their transcendence
No
time
stand
in their way.
All my love to you and yours,
Max
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