I Eat Francis Bacon for Breakfast

My father says
That all arts are understood in terms of oratory:
Pick and cater!
Clarity!
I’ve been chastised
For not taking a class in sitcom writing.
I listen to Klaus
And don’t know to laugh or cry.
A speech will not defeat speech.
Only direct!
Only straight!
Emily is crying.
My father has hurt a woman.
He belongs in metaphorical prison
With the ghost of a story
Told under the lamppost of July
And the walking past to an electronics window.
I’ve read a book on Charles Bronson.
Did you know his real name is Buchinsky?
Still, I can’t read prime time
And there’s no point in typing my mouth shut.
Robocop is Burroughs.
It’s all come full circle.