My father died this year.
My face is heavy. Hooked from my neck.
My eyes slits, my forehead sees, how it felt to be near him, His heavy voice, the knowing smile. He would break into an Olympian sprint at any gleeful cue, whenever it pleased him.
The slap hello, his hand hanging in the air above my head.
Breakfast at Norms. Rude sneers, sex nicks at thick waisted waitresses.
“Are you mine? My son? Maybe you belong to someone else?
His thick fingers of a hard worker, like mini crowbars.
The cheap FM radio cleansed our work day. Each song launched a missile of surprise. Spurned on a rush, a boogie, a drop, a moment tween hard hands, clenching tools.
California sun painted even stupid things into a sunflower.
He married too many times. Confusing then cruel. Too many angry sisters. Screaming, he knew they were his.
“I’m going to hit you in the head with this hammer, then drag you into the street and beat you” He smiled lovingly.
The Olympian’s stride broke, the wives died sick and alone. His misery grew, his body lied, he fell too many times.
His smile, the roar of his black top Dodge Charger, and it’s long brown hood stretching over cracked Hollywood streets. The memory of push in buttons for stored radio stations. The dreams it wailed.
Until it all failed and died.
You can never forget Radio Dreams.