287/365

bloke. chap. lad.
he’s my mate
from manchester
who owns a caravan
in northern ireland.  
we drain a few pints
the sun setting, talking
about our kids
diversity and leadership.
discussing the damage parents
do to kids- first we’re recipients
then perpetrators. life is
the art of dissipating pain.

it’s dark on bikes
in the park along the beach
a pair of shared ear buds:
the hardest part of adolescence
we agreed was seeing through
the hypocrisy of society.
they notice the bullshit
and notice that we’ve bought into it.
how do we explain to our kids
that we’ve only bought in
so they can break out?

lukewarm poetry and rock and roll
are no substitute for a life
of ignored adventure and sacrificed dreams.
it’s no wonder we deal in generational
depression. if only drunken bike rides with mates
and nineties rock were enough to prove
we haven’t given up and we love them
enough to live fully in the safe bloated space
we call adulthood. no young person
can respect a person who has given
up on youth. we were you. you will be us.
just as desperate to be loved and relevant.
every minute is a decrescendo from the moment
of our birth. except for the deliberate blips
we produce in between the measures.  

every family is fucked up-
they just don’t admit it- he tells me.
i texted to let him know i love him.
it feels important to name even a
hint of intimacy. who else are you
saving it for? let us bear witness.