June 16, 2019 – 11:18 AM PDT
For the songbird he became, Sundays at this moment he sang to the people. Meanwhile, his son sitting 4 pughs back not caring for the hymn, but often in a trance daydreaming a new one.
Sermons began with dreaming imaginary flights all around the world, awaiting the, “…and in closing,” statement because after that it was like wheels down and we got to drive home. The dreams came home too. In my bedroom I’d play them out with my toys. When we’d go home after morning service, that was the layover, because dad often fought with mom to get us back to Sunday evening worship.
In the Summer, Flight Simulator 2000 was Sunday evening’s last leg. During the weekdays, it was either day flights on the computer, or head to Boys and Girls Club.
They spoiled us, at least 3 times a week I got to choose. Or, head to Grandma’s.
Maybe I ignored his sermons too much. But it doesn’t matter, I took home what he meant to give the people listening anyway.
I’ve traveled enough to forecast lost baggage. And most of us don’t check it anyway, afraid the airline would lose it. And that shits getting expensive. My father never heard my dreams, because he was more concerned about me showing up to church on time. The older I got, the more reluctant I was to tell anyone about the dreams I had in church. The same Budd riding to the airport, is the same Budd who tried to build an airplane in our backyard with a Honda lawnmower. Dad saw the mess, and destroyed the wooden wings I began it with.
The lawn would’ve never been cut; what the hell was I thinking at 7?
Some glad morning, when this life is over,
I’ll fly away.
One long mourning, I look up to Dekum’s blue where he flew to stay.
If heaven be his space, maybe I’ll breathe til’ it’s in my face.
There’s something about full moons, when you spoke, it was white noise that bloomed.
I still hear the songbird sweeping away, but you never picked up a broom anyway.
You never cleaned, but Sunday mornings you did so repenting.
When I shared with you my last dream, you smiled and remained sleeping.
You last smiled 2 days after I met her. Then you passed on. So, to clear things up I can’t prove to your generation I’m not gay by not marrying in my 20s. Dad, like the people I do this for, they too misread me. The writer was for the people to stop assuming of me. My dreams like hers, taking off from 28L. Just know we’re giving both the heavens and hell something new to spell.
This next full moon I’ll sing like I was suppose to do at church the morning I fell ill. But honestly, standing in front of people felt like an overwhelming obligation. Back then I failed. But today, I get much worse criticism than your eyes when I showed up to church hung over as hell.
Failing to show up was apart of my process. Unfortunately, the success part occurs after your journey here ended. You worked hard for the seeds you left behind, it often kept you asleep in church. You really thought church was important enough to head straight to after a graveyard shift? What were you dreaming?
Anyways, I ignored most your sermons, but I left church with the one thing you gave the people. Fulfillment in presence, because hope for book one is coming true for me.
The jacket though.
Now the last of my colors I could never spell. You sang the same song after working for us; 12 hours of hell. From Saturday evening to Sunday morning, you just showed up. Only awake to sing or preach up.
From the fighting preacher,
To your son’s readers.
I wrote this still hungover.
And able to get a message sent over.
Like the singing fighter in church I watched,
It’s Summertime dad, from above watch a partying writer in flight.
We won’t lose luggage,
Because the experience is how Budd will fly this.
Flying with love,
The colors you sang inspired us from above.
Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because its fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd