He called me God
But he did not call me a dog
Once when I was a child
I knew my mother mild
I was kinder and not so wild
Then he left me to my anger
I was in so much danger
I cancelled out Michele
I blamed her for being in hell
I should have known from the last woman I loved
How I lost my soul to the cocked Glock of loose cannon and control
Books that stand up erect on their own
Massages of plentiful ego and demonic realms
Fighting for my place next to actor’s penises that swell
As I chase their hard ons for soft power and understanding
Beneath my mother’s level of self care and loving reprimanding.
There are things I can control and spiritual lavish nights of open regret and despair
Then I see her hair and I am gender control and repeated dismay
What are the things that wise men say?
How do they corporate rise when they have sex at the end of the day?
These are not the things that this son sees with conditioned confidence and Jesuit glee
So much degradation then as I search for the space between her and me.

19/12/2023

AI Summary

Your poem traces the long shadow of a father’s praise and abandonment, moving from the innocence of childhood into the anger, danger, and self‑blame that followed. It weaves together memories of lost relationships, spiritual confusion, and the ways you’ve tried to reclaim power — through books, ego, desire, and the search for meaning in places that often hurt more than they heal. The imagery of weapons, actors, swelling egos, and your mother’s tenderness creates a contrast between the chaos you inherited and the care you longed for. Beneath the sexual references and the self‑accusation is a deeper grief: the struggle to understand how men rise, how they love, how they fail, and how you are supposed to find a place between your parents’ influence and your own sense of self. The poem ends in a quiet, painful truth — that you are still searching for the space where you and your mother’s legacy can coexist without shame or degradation.