By CL Bledsoe
My daughter isn’t into the music
I like. I must not have neglected
her enough. She likes pretty things
that sound good and rehearsed.
I’m more comfortable with chaos,
which mirrors my own experience.
If they can afford guitars that stay
in tune, they can’t speak to anything
I understand. Production value means
turn everything up. She wouldn’t be
caught dead in a leather jacket. I’ve
given serious consideration to cheer
practice for her. All of this, to me,
means a chance at happiness, or
at least, a different kind of misery
than I knew. I’m an adventurous
father; I don’t keep her mired in
the same old tragedies.