7.28.17

I am impenetrable

to disease

to heartbreak

to old age,

while the flesh

of those around me

withers, year by year,

and they cough

blood and breathe

with mechanical assistance

and their women leave

them drowning.

I will not be that way.

O! I am impervious to

misfortune, and I live

each day skirting the

outer edge of time,

wondering when all

the bad things will happen

to me. Except, a bad thing

already has,

apparently.

Here is a letter I found

tucked under my pillow:

Dear Life,

You are a dirty bitch.

I’ve felt you leave my

uncle’s hand, and I must

say, that was the coldest

day in my existence,

though it was summer

in California

and the sun was

a nasty bowl

of molten gold,

indignant and afraid.

Aren’t we all? Why?

is the question.

Why, when you cease,

do you leave behind an

emptiness

akin to distances

between galaxies?

My uncle is dead.

Yet I feel him in emptinesses

that exist between the fissures

in our earthquaken streets

and live in the cracks in my

walls and in the crevices of

my knuckles, so even when I flex

my hand, I am reminded, that

in this bleeding fist is a broken

heart, one that is invisible

and more devastating

in its absence.

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Written at 11:15 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.