My son,


Every man crafts a lens with which to view his world.


You’re young. The stars burnish your glass and you dream of brandy beaches where kitten-tigers caper on the shore.


Your pleasant heart shades your lens with pink ladies drawn virginally to your lap. Delicate lashes tickle your glasses, showing you oceans of skin.


Your ladies and your tigers roll.


But I have been to your beaches. You cannot drink from the ocean. There is no sanctuary from the sun, and when it sets your tigers do not revel languidly beneath the moon. They hunt.


I have lain with your lady, and she is undiscerning of grief. She made me wish I had known less than everything.






My father,


My dreams are of kelpy waters and worn hags. I do not see great cats, but mad bears.

I dream of the wise cough of experience and the cool snicker of approval. And in the weathered moon I know that my dreams are not the dreams

of young sex and adventure.


Those dreams still belong to you.