12.19.17

it’s bloodshed
this honesty, imagine
years from now
in a half decrepit
one bedroom
somewhere
east of the mojave
with our child
on your hip
you’ll confess that
all you ever felt
has been submerged
like the once resplendent
hills of the golden city
which now must suffer
the shit of fish
the slimy dependency
of urchins, where once
great kings sat impossibly high
decapitating their citizens
with relish. i will adore you
until my last breath. being
my father’s son, such is the
plight i am dealt, a parasite
among parasites, i die
when i’m alone. but you,
you do as you please. i’ll
send you a postcard from cuba
once i realize that writing like
hemingway is not so simple
and my final recourse is
a muzzle underchin, a few
words scribbled on the back
of a paper card, which on the
front will read havana in neon
pink, and on the flipside
announces the termination
of a flaccid life.

Written at 10:46 in the morning, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.