Electricity
When everything was going the Borges way and my head seemed a vast egg full of astral matter that could spill anytime like yellow yolk, a little recall of the details relating to my own coming into this earth is in order:
Electricity struck a mother’s middle finger
Causing its radically twisted views about life.
The electric wires came from a father’s love
Who embraced them to get the wind going,
For a baby- son perspiring in summer heat.
Baby might have gurgled a viable disapproval.
It was still unclear if it was okay to deprive son
Of his father’s love, by embracing live wires.
It looked a wrong choice, a crazy quirk of fate,
A poetic justice, well before a future unfolded,
A finger-pointing by dark fate at a life-script
Before the prologue is writ, an epilogue began.
