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