My Father's Rage I sit with my recollections and a bowl of soup at the bottom of which lies feta cheese, half melted and my father's rage. A rage which lacks a chasis and a stencil to guide the lead lines. Both the feta and the rage melt the feta for a moment: acrid and vaginal on the tongue the rage much longer, maybe decades It is tart, over night coffee. That rage of coffee tartness is familiar for me it has been injected into my veins it has been moulded to my D.N.A. it has a long shelf life. I stretch back to the comic severity of the Cold, yet scalding war I reach out and snatch that rage I clutch it to my breast but it is not my child we are the same age, it and I. It was conceived with hawk cop cars and revolvers drawn it lingered in the womb for three months with little blue pills, electroshock with one t.v. channel watching golf
and nurses who told you when to shit. All through the eighties the poster of the Incredible Hulk and the Knight Rider all through the eighties wars in El Salvador and Nicarauga and the Transformers and the Thundercats to the Berlin Wall falling, we shared a childhood. The worm, the shape shifter, the shadow linger over us like a plague threatened-through suicidal tendencies threatened-through social rejection threatened-through my first kiss, love, travel and a formal education threatened to burst like a storm breaking the uterine walls and dragging the placenta along with it. It burst-the last year of school he ran off for three days and hitch-hiked to Hamilton. They gave him stronger medication and we poured silence, like foam over it. It burst- we both screaming at the top of our lungs into the phone and then the little blue pills, electroshock, one t.v. channel watching golf and nurses who told you when to shit. "Do you think it's funny?"
"No, Dad, I sob." Adam Tod Leverton (firstname.lastname@example.org)