BRIAN
I can see you now,
your mouth twisted and warped
as purity and sounds heard
by no one else
refuse to exit your soul.
I envision your child self
listening to Murray's records
delighting at first notes
exploding in your genius, budding,
and rearranging without thought.
As you grow your father speaks
louder and more as he notices
and realizes that you are
what he wished for
in himself.
I feel the pain of his frustrations
as I recall the belts, sticks, fists,
of my own past and youth.
I pause in recollection
to thank God for both my ears
and pray in reverence and recognition
that the wishes of my old man
were simply to have a clone.
Your Dennis remains in memory,
mine and yours,
and I wonder if you can define
how the youngest sibling
became removed from the mix
of defined family role of baby child.
Maybe it was Old Testament Lord
who gave forth the rebel,
punished for transgressions
in brass ring purgatory,
and laughing all the way.
Was he a devil,
or merely bohemian,
illiterate anti-christ
with vague idea of humanity
only perceived while nursing a broken heart.
Could this be why Manson came?.
Could it be that he was sent?
In recollection, now jaded,
I somehow see the boys together.
A small barber shop quartet of sorts
with Murray at the helm
dogmatically ignoring his failure
and refusing to cast doubts
upon his own ideas
using, selfishly, family talents
to rectify defeats now behind.
And what of Carl?
Was he mom's favorite,
or was it you, Brian, on both ends?
Had Murray weakened her
as he did you,
or did she love him
as mate, unabashedly,
as he, not she, saw fit.
They left that weekend
placing you in charge,
though you never found the helm
a place of comfort.
Rented instruments, relatives,
and a song written and sung.
The pride on your face and faces
evident when parents returned,
dad wishing to feel anger
over orders not followed,
but vicarious need interceded
and onward, together, but not quite,
you went.
And what child or boy/man
could truly know fear of genius.
And what teenager could intuit
angst of self.
Dad/Murray/Manager lost
in fantasy, yesterday,
named you Pendletones.
His hardened heart
refusing to acquiesce
that this creation, not his.
And door to door he walked
and stubbornly into offices
where cynical guys with rolling chairs
sat behind desks listening to phones ringing
and chewing gum and saying, "yeah, yeah,
everybody's a hit maker."
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Carter Monroe lives, works, and writes in the provinces. His novel, Journey, was published in January 2001. He participated in a conspiratorial effort with Robert Canipe and Tim Peeler entitled Writers on the Storm. Both of these books can be purchased at most major book chains as well as the traditional internet outlets. Recent poems and stories have appeared in Poems Niederngasse, Poethia, Third Lung Review, Thunder Sandwich, The Americana Poetry Consortium, Lost and Found Times, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.
• Sitting in With the Sun review by Jim Chandler Thunder Reviews •
"Sitting in with the Sun" available at Rank Stranger Press |
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