my father is a man
who talks too long about anything
drawing upon as his source
a Mount Washington1934 wind
destined to blow into your ear
a refreshing gust of answers
for every one of your inquiries
or lack thereof
for in his eye
conversation is a jet stream
a narrow current
upon which two or more people
might travel a great distance
in a short span of time
in an age
when most are local travelers
exercising fly by night diction
caring not about the distance traveled
so long as feet are
soon to touch the ground
my father floats words
in the mind’s spacious places
through conversations
in cramped coach compartments
on flights that don’t serve meals
and often offer only peanuts
at journey’s end
restricted to only two allowed
pieces of carry on luggage
ideas in the overhead bin
ideals near his feet beneath the seat
of mouths in motions
my father digs the internal combustion
that’s why he seats himself near the engine
i am the son of a loud passenger
who refuses to blend in
my father is full of hot air
in a world of nylon thoughts
if you listen closely
you can hear a propane burner
blowing the air of ascension…
when my long winded father speaks


the aospeakswithbreath