i am the wind, you are the feather.

There’s a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes
I threw them to sea, but a gust blew them backwards
And the sting in my eyes, which you then inflicted
Was par for the course, just as when you were living.

It’s no stretch to say you were not quite a father
But a donor of seeds to a poor single mother
That would raise us alone, we never saw the money
That went down your throat through the hole in your belly.

Thirteen years old in the suburbs of Denver
Standing in line for Thanksgiving dinner
At the Catholic church, the servers wore crosses
To shield from the sufferance plaguing the others.

Styrofoam plates, cafeteria tables
Charity reeks of cheap wine and pity
And I’m thinking of you, I do every year
When we count all our blessings and wonder what we’re doing here.

You’re a disgrace to the concept of family
The priest won’t divulge that fact in his homily
And I’ll stand up and scream if the mourning remain quiet
You can deck out a lie in a suit but I won’t buy it
I won’t join in the procession that’s speaking their peace
Using five-dollar words while praising his integrity
And just cause he’s gone it doesn’t change the fact
He was a bastard in life, thus a bastard in death, yeah!