Waiting in April for Christmas lights
like how our mothers wait for us to call.
What did they do wrong to spawn sons
like we? who’ve lost
the courtesy to pay back our debts
for the sacrifice performed on our behalf,
which we never asked for, true.
We don’t ask for blessings yet they fall on us like rain, like light, like hellfire.
We are the blessed youth.
We are the stampede of ignorance trampling our
mothers’ horrified faces. We know how
and yet we don’t.
Apathy is warm soup, comfort for the soul.
forgive, accept, embrace.
I beg you.
Written at 10:13 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, about ready to go to sleep. Tired, tired, tired.