Daddy calls himself a “regular” man. I’ve probably always searched for what that self-identification entails or denies him in one way or another from who and how I date to what and why I write.
My influences and affectations certainly owe something to him and his “regular-ness (smirk);” probably a lot more than just something.
So anyway, check out some Carl Sandburg; he, no his poetry, makes me think about my dad for some reason. You figure that part out.
Ready to Kill
Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
Against the sky
Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to kill anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.