Houdini Series

Houdini

1. Now think of him—
do you want to be just
like him?
I cringe
when my mom asks
me this.

I know it’s not normal
to shake right before
a person takes a drink—
but I’ve seen my brother
do that too—
and I don’t drink
nearly as much as him.
I’m just excited for that
first swig,
I tell myself.

It’s not withdrawals,
I just haven’t eaten
because I don’t want
to waste calories on food
when I can shoot tequila
with a lime-wedge and salt.
A lime is fruit—that’s healthy.

It’s not just a love for nightlife
we had in common—
fanciful daydreams of
future adventures, a sarcastic wit,
and a who gives a shit I’ll do what I want, attitude.
that—

bonded us together like the
powdered cheese and macaroni shells
I have to eat
because it’s cheap—
the stealing
bastard.

2. Didn’t love me
as much as the blow,
the black-jack,
the booze,
his handsome-fucking-self.
But—
loved me enough to
lie to me the most.
Acid-rain promises
fall down
upon my shoulders.
I hate the rain now
and yearn only for
rays of the sun
to keep me warm.

I would have been happier
had he not said
anything
at all.

3. Gee! My dad is the coolest—
I constantly bragged this to my
high school friends:
He’s a
big San Francisco stockbroker—
lived next-door to the drummer
from Metallica.
He’s a writer,
a photographer,
a party-animal—
he used to bartend,
knows something about everything.
He can talk to anybody—
even the drag queen in five-
inch heels strutting down Lombard street
or the mobsters hiding their businesses
within the darkest corners of
restaurants and garbage dump truck companies.

I would never tell my friends
I was afraid to go home sometimes,
that I hated it when he wore sunglasses in the house—
a sure sign he was using.
I would never tell them
I hated it if his eyes were glassy—
a sure sign he’s drinking.
I just hid in my brother’s room
while he was off to college—
a drunk and cracked-out man
would never think to look
for me in there.

4. No one ever expects
the FBI to appear
on one’s doorstep—

the neatly pressed duo
I saw three other times
before
you were sent to prison.

I wonder if you had to be
someone’s bitch in there—
If you got hit on,
(you always did prize your looks)
were forced to butt-fuck
to get buy.

You always were a
bit homophobic.

I have no sympathy for you
because you got exactly
what you deserved,
whatever happened to you
in there.

Four years since I have seen you—
sometimes I forget what you,
dad,
look like—

that is until I look in the mirror.
I see your streaks of blonde hair,
my skin with olive and yellow undertones
that mimic your own,
the oval face,
the dimple on only the right side
of the cheek when smiling,
the ridiculously small hands that have
made it always a chore
to reach an octave
on a piano,
or hold a football—
but have never inhibited
my ability to take shots.

But in the mirror—
I know you never cried
the way I have.
You always did think
you were put on this earth
to be admired by those of us
that were less than perfect.

5. Happy Birthday.
It was as good a
time as ever to open
the line of communication.
I still lie to myself
thinking pity is what made
me call.

How disgustingly-good
it felt to have a dad
to talk to
for three months—
until slurred words and
nostalgia about my childhood
came through from the other line.
Suddenly I’m thrust into the past,
fifteen—
and holding back the tears to not show
how every time I get just as hurt,
feel just as helpless.

It’s ok that you lost your job dad.
Don’t worry you’ll find work,
someone will give you a chance.
I…
love you
…too dad.

I was told it was alright
to lie if it was to protect someone else—

but I’m sick to my stomach
how I
and everyone else present
in his life
protects him
from the truth.
To be honest,
I don’t think
truth registers on his radar—
it has been
twisted and molded
to fit his illusions of
being the superior being.

A fucking sperm donor
cares more
about his offspring.

His list of offenses—
impressive:
four DUIs
multiple arrests and
jail time.
Now rehab—
it’s his last chance.
Yet I’m quite sure
there have been no lessons learned
on both our parts—
I still want to pick up the phone
and tell him
it will all
work out
just
fine.

6. I looked up “Sociopath”
And you fit the descriptions—
except number eleven,
inability to love.
I’m positive you loved
Copper, our golden retriever
because you cried for days
when she died.