Baby.

I want to have my partner’s baby.

I want to have my lover’s baby.

I want to have Kurt Vonnegut’s baby.

I want to have Thom Yorke’s baby.

I want to have Naom Chomsky’s baby.

I want to have John Steinbeck’s baby.

24 & it’s all too real. I feel the creaking hand of  age trying for me already. I wake up stiff sometimes from my unforgiving mattress. I’m tired. My knee hurts when it rains. The kids have slang I don’t know about & it scares me.

I suppose it’s only logical—to hide from my worst fear behind a belly swollen with hope. To solidify loves, to create a pink & shining family in this brave new world. I suppose it’s only biology. But then, it does feel like giving up. I say to myself, there is nothing to live for anymore. For me, there is only decline. I’ve cycled through all the fun drugs. They’ve lost their psychoactivity, now only listless powders and liquids. Inert & unfeeling, like myself. I’ve thought all I have to think & now the thoughts repeat. Moths, fluttering feathers, swirling whirlwinds echoing in my empty skull. I’ve been a vegan, I’ve been unfashionable, I’ve been well, sick, too thin. I’ve hated myself. I’ve been loved, I’ve been abused. I’ve been a mystic & a scientist. Now nothing remains to experience but this unity with humanity, my most daunting creative potential. I do want it. I don’t want to want it.

I’m afraid of the world she’ll be born into. What a choice, to create from my body another body, another window. I didn’t ask to be born, neither does she. Only I want her. We want her. She’ll come into this dying world far too late. She’ll come into a world where all sentiments have been shared already, where peak oil has been reached, where there can be no new songs. She’ll come into this world superfluous. She may have to fight wars for water and arable land. We’ve destroyed so much already.

I’m afraid of so much.

I imagine her looking up at me, from one of my eyes and one of his. I imagine her asking, why? & I can have no answer. My answer can only be, I was afraid of dying.

I’m afraid of the mistakes I’ll make. I won’t be my mother but perhaps I’ll be too far on the other side. Same problems, opposite chirality. I might make her weak, dependent, unsure. She could be oblivious, blinded by too much love and acceptance. She could be—worst of all—boring.

As an animal, as a vehicle for DNA, there is nothing else to aspire to. As a cancer on this earth, there is nothing else to aspire to. I want it, he wants it, I suppose I’ll make peace. & I believe the joy will cancel the dread. I might become a gentler being for it. I might become listless, inert, satisfied. She might tear me up and create me as I create her.

Time will tell.

Baca.

My grandpa died this month. It’s the first experience of death I’ve really had.

You are gone, gone, gone, from existing to not.

Snuffed.

Disappeared.

Death is the end, though you never believed it.

You believed in God and heaven above. & in heaven on earth, too.

Well maybe you were right.

I’m certain that nothing more exists but I’m more certain that I’m more often wrong than right.

& now all I can think is, I hope you were happy.

I could have loved you better, known you at least.

For as much as I knew you—as a child knows—I loved you. Only imagine the love I could have felt!

But I didn’t, not really.

Maybe the best man I’ve ever almost-known.

Now snuffed.

I have your name. Someone said I have your eyes: dark, deep-set, pensive.

I have 25% of your DNA on average and your sweet tooth.

You liked Red Vines right? Or was it Twizzlers.

You always looked like you were worrying something between your teeth and your lips.

Something guarding, something preventing, maybe.

An extra word just for you, not for public consumption.

A feather, some wisdom you kept to yourself because it would be better discovered alone. And besides, some wisdom you can’t share. Some wisdom must be earned.

The eternal moment of your death, I wonder how you felt it. If life flashed before your eyes, if you felt the wings of peace, if you were swallowed by a cold ocean.

& maybe someday I’ll see you again & you’ll be laughing and young. But I don’t think so.