in the basement of the house i grew up in, i connect with my father through the few things there is left

complex knots tied by his hands hold up a canvas cloth which cover the pipes and wires running the basements ceiling. if you know knots, you will appreciate how secure these are. they have held tight for 15 years.
he was a merchant marine. blown off the deck of an oil tanker that exploded on the bosphorous in istanbul, breaking 1/6 of the windows in the city, lighting the 3 nights as if they were day. he was the sole survivor of that accident, appearing in turkish papers with no eyebrows and singed hair. we have clippings, unless he took them when he left.

i look up at the canvas. he built a bar down there. so he could drink with that english guy with one arm, joe. he installed speakers, put the parrot down here. joes wife, who drank as much brown liqour as joe, had a poodle, i recall.

i sip bourbon from his tumblers.
92 proof.

maybe one day i will tie similar knots.






sometimes i know that i mean it when i say that given the chance i will kill him with my hands.
sometimes i dont.