10.10.17

 

When I went to bed
as a child
I did so under the warmth
of a thick blanket in a temperature
controlled environment,
birch tree branches creaking
outside my window and the smell
of acacia thick on the air.
Just eight years before my birth
my father slept with a lamplight
fixed on his face and all his essentials
stowed away in a basket by the bed
so when the bombs dropped
and the electricity cut short
the sudden death of the light
would wake him
and he could grab my mother
and sister and the basket in a
single practiced motion and
carry them to the basement level
of their complex where all the neighbors
gathered and took roll
and dreaded the mention of
a name that would not call back.
Which of us will die tonight?
That was his concern.
I cried when my nightlight
burnt out. And I screamed
until my parents came
and changed it. What a
helpless creature I am.
A fragile beast fixated on
problems of addiction and
art and personal desire.
My father
climbed
the ladder
and somewhere
along the way
my  grip slipped
and I tumbled
down the rungs
and crashed at
a  place that
can only be
described as

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

bottom rock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Written at 11:43 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.