The paternal space in me

is a dark room

of gruesome ghosts

who barely became

To become

has many nuances;

not really becoming

is a tremendous treachery,

often successful;

ice growing in the dark

I could write a book by Jorge Luis Borges

about it,

trashing the never really becoming

whom I never saw straight,

without remorse, with disgust;

clinically, antiseptically,

in the solidity of uncanny truths

No off-spring is excused

by various helplessnesses,

worn as insignia and medals,

its trans-parent(s) existence

worn down by dangerous inheritances,

lifted by venomous talents;

these half breeds and jesters

on the slippery slope

of dee-dum documentations

and dark dada dashes