The Real Moment

The devil is in the details. Derails
dovetails, the name of that feeling
sinking beyond the night.

I am no father; I am a man.

The details; the details. That little glance
to the side into your eyes
catching an affect in the camera's lens.

You'll remember that moment
with five-hundred thousand
people on YouTube.

But that moment isn't real.

There is something more, hidden.
Outside the lens and endless plane
extends into the depths of fleshy
human existence.


Let me tell you about my mother:
She has no visual memories, life
is abstract.

She obsessively takes pictures
because if she doesn't
it is gone forever.

She doesn't realize
how lucky she is sometimes.

The details; the moment frozen
in my memory completely intact
amplified to ridiculous proportions
coalescing into a growing star.

I am a man; I am as open
and fragile as I will ever be
as this moment continues
swelling in a Dionysian fever.

I am no father; and if I were
it still would be true
that I am incapable of giving birth.

These moments are destined
to stay within me
as a molten fuel reactor
that consumes itself eternally.

I am no father; I am self-contained.