By Button Poetry
Dave Harris, performing at Honey in Minneapolis, MN.
Transcript provided by YouTube:
I haven’t killed my father yet,
but I know love’s brutal blade.
Brown flesh turns yellow when it rots.
I nurture wrath like a mother.
Keep it calm, Baby’s teething.
I want him dead like history.
I heard long time ago, ancestors made drums
with their master’s skinned ribcage.
The hollow inside would echo like an endless mouth.
I can’t help but think of this.
I could make music of his dying,
could pass the instrument to my children,
the beat of the kill.
Revenge is a fine religion.
Good God, his faithful fist.
I’m a wicked son.
I got my mother’s stomach.
He must have said, “I’ll never do it again.
I swear, won’t even think about it.”
My mother doesn’t talk about him.
Silence– a simple forgiveness.
She screamed loudest when I told her I was looking for him,
said my eyes were familiar.
But I’m young, a better body of rage.
These days, my mother tries to plant flowers.
She says, “Just give it time.”
Patience– that’s one way to pray.
I have another.
I know he knows I’m coming.
I’m his son.
The day I was born, he fled,
We both runnin’.
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Photo credit: Screenshot from video