Wednesday, April 27, 2016

BOLOGNA ON WONDER

I never finished reading Bukowski's Ham On Rye but the crux of the novel is when he is a little boy being beaten with his dad's razor strop. That fucking resonated with me. Splattered my heart all over the linoleum. Maybe because I was whipped a few times with my dad's leather belt. That shit stings but the physical discomfort isn't the worst of it and Bukowski got this and he put it in Ham On Rye and I read it and my tears plopped down on the page. The worst of it is when your parent fucking hates you. Maybe your father hates the fucking world but his hatred is concentrated and focused on YOUR ASS. You feel the hatred in red spastic waves. Why are you hated? You are four years old. You haven't killed anyone. You haven't raped anyone. You haven't filed false rape charges. You haven't lied in court. You haven't bullied anyone. Maybe you wet your bed. Maybe you went inside the next door neighbor's house and ate a fried pie in the kitchen. Maybe you showed your cousin your naked Ken doll. Maybe you didn't eat all your Dairy Queen onion rings. Maybe you walked in on your daddy crawling toward your mommy in his Fruit of the Looms. Happy Father's Day, my ass.

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