Dear King

Dear king, 


I wonder how your wife is?


The priests are praying for you and

the prophets are convinced that the efficacy of your fathership - 

your model of adopting the fold of the fatherless - 

rebounded to compound upon the sense of insignificance 

that left your kids

broken chains

in the legacy that became your gospel. 


I drank milk before I bit at your meat, 

but when I tasted the blood of the preachers cut beneath your feet, 

I knew I’d finally hit puberty. 


Who do I think I am? 


A son

beneath the bus-stop  

at San Mateo and Academy. 


Or the coasters that I always felt so backwards for

replacing at the brewery. 


The son of two fathers that have abandoned me. 

(If I can empathize with anything, 

it’s how to play the victim.)



I can be


triperspectival in all of my personalities, 

and dominate my family just like a 


prophet, communicating truth without the love of a 

priest, feeling for everything without the truth of a 

king’s control, fixing, nitpicking.


I wonder how your wife is?


I wonder where your kids are?


I wonder if you know that people are people are people are people are

human beings and you can be




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