birds to the moon ma

it’s hard to tell your mother you’re a beast. to tell her what it’s like/erase. to tell her that nothing matters and everyone is making up as they go. to tell her that it’s HER fault you’re here in the first place (father to(not that you blame her but its just a fact). explaining that nothing MATTER/S till you input the trail of semantics you washed up upon. it’s not that she hasn’t had any experiences in which she found some teleological tune; having children (painful i heard), loving, smelling a new car, two step on the dance floor. i had to tell her that i didn’t believe in IT anymore; the myths, the choices, the fragrance of her new car. no injustice no determinism, just behaviors, assumptions.my mother works, it’s sad. i didn’t want to devastate her, she listens with papal concern, sensitivity of influence, she believes in me. the cherry in her manhattan swiveled the round of her glass, roulette roll.she sat down looking into the glass with little recognition of it's shape. a game ma, one that required destruction. no more ontology, just listen, taste, disaffect and dream. we breathe MEANING/S into it from a diaper to a toe tag, all the way, told what to think. not the beast once infected with something. it’s not fair to learn this at her age; too much built behind to destroy, foundations to thick, world is too big to pummel. i put my arm around her and we started talking about the apocalypse, OUR version of IT. the angels with face paint, elephants with shoes, birds to the moon ma, birds to the moon…