I am sometimes astounded that I have a son and that he seems to look up to me. As I've said in previous posts, I am not a normal father. Don't watch football on Sundays. Couldn't tell you who won the World Series last year, Don't even really care.
Yet my son doesn't seem to realize that I'm a freak, a missing link. I would rather read poetry than sports scores. Thank goodness my son doesn't know what normal dads do.
Saint Marty has never been called normal.
The Missing Link Explains How to Be a Monster
by: W. Todd Kaneko
Do not look at mirrors. Do not fight
the urge to speak without consonants.
Sharpen your antlers against a coral reef,
fins against an elm tree, hooked teeth
against a fire engine. Do not grow up.
Loosen the needlework that fastens
a man's soul to his bones, his bones
to the names he is called by his children.
Release a man from his skeleton, wrestle him
out of his old skin and let him rise
steaming into night. The referee's hand
slapping the canvas three times is the last thing
a man hears before he must reckon
with his body's malfunction. Be reborn
with a snake's complexion, a caveman's brow.
Terrify the crowd with a prehistoric tongue,
words cracking more like a thunderstorm
than a song for the moon. Don't be afraid
when you awake after a fight, your new body
smeared with blood. Smash your head
into a redwood, a mountain if you want,
until the whole world lies in pieces at your feet.
Try not to grow up to be like your father.
End up exactly like your father.