Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Father

  • Once I Was Seven Years Old

    World’s such a big place when you spend your childhood looking up, searching the faces of strangers looking for familiarity. And I spent a lot of my time looking for you in the eyes of others. Wasted my youth reaching out for your hand when you kept pulling away. There’s no evidence of your departure Continue reading

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  • “…cos I won’t remember…”

    Hey Dad, what do you think about your son now? Few years ago, I wrote a letter to Javier and never meant to send it. A vent. Something written out of anger. As much as I say I practice certain Buddhist philosophies and practices, I can never put the anger behind me. Even after all Continue reading

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  • Hand in Unlovable Hand

    A few years ago, I found myself at a fork in the proverbial road. Like Robert Frost, I pondered the consequences that came with each. Shrugging it off, I took the familiar path. And because I’m the sort who wonders, I thought a lot about the other road, mainly where’d I be at that present Continue reading

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  • Eulogy

        A dream: “My father was a man. He wasn’t a great man, and he surely isn’t the worst of men. He didn’t teach me how to shave. Didn’t teach me what it meant to be a man. The only thing he did teach me was how to run away.” I’m standing in a Continue reading