8.21.17

I imagine

when I was born

my father held me in his arms

and as rain beat down upon the earth

he screamed into the sky

WHY GOD WHY

Now, don’t be foolish.

This is conjecture, of course

it is, a conjured nightmare

for the restless soul,

but what are fantasies

if not fodder for demented

minds; what is sunshine

if not a battery for the tired

spirit; what is the moonrise

if not permission to dream?

I believe I am a changed man,

failing up, ward

of a decayer,

outstretched like an offering

in the palm of time,

for you.

look at me,

father,

look at me,

father,

see what

you’ve become;

for what is a son

but the illbegotten

seed conceived before

the tide brings misery

and blossomed without

doubt in a world with

conditions worse than

those of his creator?

What is a son

but his father.

---

Written at 12:40 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.