my dad was a dad when he was my age.
the only thing I am a dad to these days
is the amount of rice that I make, either
an insane amount or a disappointing amount.
my dad’s parenting style involved expressing anger
a lot, even when no anger was left, and he had to fake it.
my parenting style would involve teaching my kids
to let their facebook accounts experience reality for them
while they withdraw further and further away
to some meta-place with the rainforest climate
of western oregon maybe, and once there express anger safely
about how there is no correct amount of rice to be made.
I keep misreading the word, ‘suburbs’ as, ‘succubus.’
talking about my parents these days makes me feel
like I am one of those sad, tired farm animals at the mall
that’s just there to be comforted and fed peanuts.
I am angry at my dad’s witty fridge magnets
for having a better grip on life than him. I am angry
at my dad but I don’t seem to be able to tell him that directly.
I am angry at all the sad, tired farm animals of western oregon.
I want to make a snowman out of rice with someone else’s dad.
I want all the rice grains in the world to have facebook accounts.
I don’t want to be my dad, I want to be the complete opposite.