My father was a writer.
Hating himself was romantic,
and drinking was artistic;
that’s how I was raised.
I fell off my bike one day,
split open my knee.
I must’ve been no more than eight.
You’re a fuck up, kid,
& that’s okay.
He gave me a sip of bourbon
instead of a bandaid.
His breakfast was an egg with his Jim Beam-
(not some Jim Beam
with his egg) neat-
and he was a fuck up from whom* I learned.
*always know when to use it, kid.
1. A pair of strong boots will get you anywhere.
2. Do your own laundry. You don’t want a woman
to know what’s in your pockets.
3. Never trust a man who refuses a drink.
4. Never trust a woman at all.
5. Never take advice.
No one knows a damn thing.
All he left me when he died
was his typewriter.
“You don’t deserve it,
but it’s yours.
Keep it as a decoration- you can’t write for shit.
I should have buried it with the bastard
because I still have a scar on my knee,
and he was one hell of a fuck up
(must be where I got it from)
but a man from whom I learned.
A message from Anonymous
Are those two plates all you ate today?
++slice of jamón
+++butter & cheese