Dough-Gods

Throw things at the wall

and see what sticks!

 

My Old Man knew the artist’s mantra,

so he tossed my mother’s hotcakes

at the cupboard door, called them

“dough-gods,” “sweat-pads,” and “pot holders.”

He did it for a laugh, our nervous laughs.

Of course he was drunk and knew

it pissed her off—two birds, one toss.

 

That inebriated act was his most successful

art form, and priceless because it lasts

forever, passed on and on in us,

the stories of failure, anger, suck-it-up

and don’t-give-a-fuck. Dumb hope and loss

continually washing inside, the tides of

pain and fear and love. Enter the myths

 

of salvation and redemption, explanations

for getting out of bed and coming to grips

with the fact that you can’t escape yourself

just like everyone else floating the blue sea

alone—in the same boat. My Old Man

taught me how to be a bastard, a self-aware,

hard bastard, harder on himself than others.

 

And Good-Christ he was unmercifully hard

on others who only cared about feathering

their own beds—that curse is in my head.

His mantra I’ve passed along to my sons

directly and unwittingly, “Take inventory

on yourself every day, and remember . . .

you can shit me, but you can’t shit yourself.”

 

Mark Gibbons

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