dad

I want to beat you to death with a blunt object. I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in. I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers. I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake. I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with it. I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender bender on the way back from the hospital. thank you that poems called dad -bo burnham