it is the sixth.
who is the oligarch which decides the 6th
to be a day of fates?
Today I mourn
it is true that I have mourned before
Today I grieve
no longer is there a future,
that nurtures in its hands, of optimistic
possibility.
To out oneself is alarming,
A painting sold to a seedy parlor– we–
decorum matters
And I have seen your display of violence
and we have seen your show of outward malice
that man, Junior,
had an ugly painting
hung–of his father
this is not the way one should honor their parent
this is an idol–fools gold.
“It’s my duty, Susan”
Today we mourn and we’ll Don
our classic fake funerary garb.
Mine will be a t-shirt featuring a cindered cop car
and when I step out of my front door, I’ll kiss
the man who will now never become my husband
for, we have a new figurehead
“A true love for a good woman is a great thing,
Susan”
of disfigured distrust
as an American, I am permitted say:
“We love violence”
and never say:
“We loath violence”
So today, I will mourn because
I did not ask for your disgusting father.
We did not want for your disgusting father.
apparently, “we” chose your disgusting daddy.
Max Hartle is a writer from Southern Utah, and a current student at the University of Washington in Seattle. His work attempts to unpack the queer life, especially when lived in rural communities and what isolation does to a soul. Having lost his close friend in 20' and his mother in 22', his work is inexplicably linked to what it means to grieve in an increasingly demanding, digital age.
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