Whither Hate

I despise grinning mothers
doting on their children
it’s the expression of a slack-jawed
perpetually bewildered dolt
who jumps up and down, clapping
overjoyed by the mystery
that is a toilet’s flushing mechanism
and the same goes
for the over-attentive father
who feigns deep conversational interest
in the blithering of a three year old
as he leans in and nods
wearing a pensive mask
so the little shit-blister brat
will grow into adulthood
believing its wit magnificent
its opinions indispensible
simply enamored with the sound
of its pathetic squawking pronouncements
but for all those mothers
and motherfucking fathers
it’s the oblivious contentment
they have with their children
as a happy healthy family
I most despise
seeing them
going to cafes and carnivals
street fairs and farmers markets
just enjoying one another’s
worry and care-free company
for them
in those moments I witness
I burn in hate with a hope
life at home is not peace
that Daddy beats Mommy and smokes indoors
and Mommy drinks straight rye and whores
and the kids act out
smearing feces in their hair
as brother and sister
claw at each other’s faces
screams and tears and drawn blood
sticky floors and instant meals
soda guzzlers and nighttime criers
bed-wetters, inflamed rashes
child abuse, rage, molestation
an entire family
sick with anal gonorrhea
and genital warts
membership in the NRA
unlocked, loaded forearms
mass murder
and a final suicide
all of this I vividly dream
lashing out from inside my own pain
my own rage
against indifferent, cruel biology
a crass genetic inheritance
imprinted upon my son
all he’s given
his sick birthright
a loathsome legacy of whither

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