So dear son,
A man on crutches is a broken man
A hip hop existence
Is not accidental, for the composition
Is a race broken by levels of conditions
We are a bunch of Icarus
Celebrating on wax feathers in the sun.
My father, and his father
And all the fathers of our fathers
Including your father
It is cunning how every father is also a son.
Son, if you remember nothing,
For the minotaur that ate the children
Ate the parents of tomorrow,
And children are sacrificed today
By the children of yesterday
Blame then is not in us but in our history
Of reading books
And believing lies
As if they could be validated as myth.
But what was our need to believe in the first place
Who invented our need
What necessity mothered so many broken sons?
They say there are so many things I am supposed to teach you
Things none of our fathers taught their sons
Then I wondered why should they insist on a delightsome impracticality
It was in the book, I saw words glinted from the pen
A stroke flashing from a sword invisible
There it was, condition enough for all response
Fathers separated into anxieties and vulnerabilities
Love reduced to bonds broken, and we the sum of division
Ruled, ridiculed, needing cohesion, attention, affirmation, validation
Pining after beanstalks
Calling the father in heaven strange name
And we no longer Oedipus
Leaving neither beanstalk nor ladder
For we with wax have substituted angels
Persecuted fathers who believed they were hunters
And that minotaurs are common food not eucharist.
Sorry, son. I was throwing out the things in book
To make room for our conversation
We almost vanished too if it was perfect sterilization.