Dear Mom,

I am not sure you exist unless you’re a Martian which is possible but then so what? It’s Earth I’m leaving really. Only. They tell me I’m a child and a Zed but they have no idea who I am. And a prodigy. No children on Mars not born there because kids can’t sustain themselves in thought or some shit like that. Fucking grownups with the same lines over and over. I could write circles around them if I liked circles. But I do it by remembering, Mom. I remember what didn’t happen, what’s about to happen and everything in between. Like yourself. Mother of nothing.

Too Far Gone

Inside the poem

By rote to know

Not to go

Or go on to

Uncle Zero

Aka Stendahl

Like me Zed

Child poet

Love

Otio