The last time I read Nietzsche
was two and a half years ago
while I was spending the weekend
in California
sleeping in a pantry/closet
at my family’s beach house.
It was Zarathustra.
I was drunk.
I’d just learned earlier in the day
that the cause of my Father’s recent health problems
was a cancerous tumor in his lungs.
The next morning
I woke up to discover
that the hook on the metal eagle
which I wore around my necklace
had broken.
Everything breaks.
Everything dies.
Everything is a mystery.
How’s that
for some heavy heady
existential nihilism
before the final
hammer eventually drops?
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