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 radically twisted views about life.
The electric wires came from father’s love
Who embraced them to get the wind going,
For a baby- son perspiring in summer heat.
Baby might have cried viable disapproval.
It was unclear if it was okay to deprive son
Of a father’s love, by embracing live wires.
It was wrong choice, a crazy quirk of fate,
A poetic justice, before a future unfolded,
A finger-pointing by its fate at a life-script
Ere a prologue is writ, an epilogue began.