11.15.17

what an ugly way to go through life
to feel from the tips of your fingers
into the depths of you
all that is wicked,
to feel unknowing
like an insect senses datum
with its bristled hairs
that some disaster is looming
beyond the frame
beyond the veil
that is your mother’s heart
and your father’s brain
both spoilt
long before you were thought of
long before you somehow made it
through.

Written around noon, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.