Age 10 | 133 lbs.
Son, when I strike your chest, pretend the pain
is greater to my fist. I strike you to remind you t
hat you are strong, you are stone. My big boy,
brick-house in a world of iron and fire.
You’ll learn that every man has the means to be
an architect, a primal designer. When they
look at you, they’ll see your weight. When I look at you, I see
your potential, unfair abundance of material.
When I fuck you up, I build you up.
Another level to the brick-house.
When it is all said and done,
they will look up and count your stories,
the pounds gained, the tears shed.
“are you any good at counting? a lot of young men like to hear health in numbers and measurements. for metabolism: calories expended, reps and sets, minutes of exercise, beats of a heart. for consumption: grams of macronutrients, proteins, carbohydrates,fats. ask yourself: what exactly is on my plate? for now, limit your servings—they should be about the size of your fist.”
Age 15 | 180 lbs.
My fists are heavier than most, my palms
are rawer than chicken breasts.
My girlfriend won’t touch my hands.
She says I’d be perfect
with a bit of roasting, or
if I were, like, 30 lbs. lighter.
But Dad says if I want to win the world
I need to be about 100 lbs. heavier.
I really don’t want to be perfect.
I don’t want to conquer or be king,
but a big boy that’s gentle with things.
“BIG FOR NOTHING! BITCH IN A BULLY’S BODY! A BITCH IN HEAT—ON COLD IRON PLATTER, BLOOD OOZES FROM MEAT. DIDN’T YOUR DADDY SHOW YOU THE BLUEPRINTS? NONE OF US ARE MEN. WE’VE GOT THE MAKINGS OF MONSTERS, THE SEQUENCES OF MACHINES.“
Age 20 | 250 lbs.
120 lb. dumbbells. 10 reps, 3 sets of shoulder and bench press.
60 lb. dumbbells. 10-12 reps, 3 sets of bicep curls, kickbacks.
515 lbs. on barbell. 6-8 reps, 3 sets of squats, deadlifts.
Every pound is necessary. Every damaged fiber is recycled,
repaired thicker. Every rep is a brick. Every set is a level.
Your eyes and nostrils bleed. Blood is mortar.
Don’t look at the mirror—your heart
will stop if it sees.
Age 22 | 280 lbs.
Before me is the envoy of Escanors
the echo of the Giant and the Handsome,
the King of the Mountain,
the Epitome of the Sun.
Son, who holds hatred towards men beneath him,
towards red-blooded hubris, who scorches
all that claims meat.
I am searing, seething.
I am sad to be
the sun, the lion, the sin
of pride, the pinnacle,
the one who decides.
Age 24 | 225 lbs.
If I ever have a boy, I will tell him
to be wary of the men his friends become,
to try and be bigger and gentler than I am,
to be forgiving of what a father envisions.
In my saga for softness, there are only
two stories of the brick-house I need my son to see:
Two years ago, when my traps were mountainsides,
with boulder shoulders and tree-trunk thighs,
I found the world in the form of a gym:
medley of men, transfixed by mirrors.
Mock-metamorphosis—chalked and callused
skin shedding, striated muscles melding
with cold iron machines.
When I swung a barbell at the exaggerated reflections,
their minds seemed to wake:
the architects, their blueprints, their frames of silence and shame,
their masculine designs that lacked fenestration.
Two years ago, I found my father crumbling into himself,
grey hair patches, dust and ash skin,
bleeding. I embraced the loosening bricks,
massaged his fingers, skin and splinters of bone:
I should never have hit you
The pain was greater for you.
I counted the tears you shed
I’m still a big boy that’s gentle with things.
My boy with so many bricks
Doctor said it’s all protein, carbs, and fats.
Unfair abundance
I just eat what’s on my plate.
Red-blooded hatred
None of it for you.
Epitome of the Son
If I ever have a boy, I will tell him
your name, tell him that
blood oozes from meat
when it is rare and tender.