OLD MAN POWER
brendan o’ brien
You’d heard whispers, but when it happens your sanity hiccups like that of a naked tribesman that kneels and chants never knowing if a spirit will even bother, but then the chief drinks blood from a skull and wind ruffles chimes of teeth and, holy shit, would you look at that.
When your dad says he’ll lift the rusty generator from its decade-old spot in the garage, you smirk and eye roll because you’re sixteen with a pocketful of pot and there is no way this man with hair the color of gravestone can actually lift that generator, perhaps the heaviest and oldest generator in the history of generators. So, seeing the ambivalence on your face the old man gets the thing to his chest, hot veins pumping purple, knees registering on Richter, and this guy, your fucking dad, carries it to the curb while his body pops and whirs like nickel amusement.
He returns gingerly, grey t-shirt soaked, head red as tomato guts. You want to give him something, an ovation or a hug, but instead you stand, enlightened, like George Washington or Hitler or one of those evangelists the first time they successfully tapped someone on the forehead.
Brendan O’ Brien
Dart League King
Keith Lee Morris