A private memory shared with one close
closed bubble within my bubble,
on a San Diego winter day,
it came to pass
cacophony's child, noise,

beginner guitar and vocal solo loud as lungs allow,
making dischords and missed beats feel
like, demons
sc'reaching into fretful, jobless Dad's brain

Stop, please! Tic, that was it- the point-end
track switch…

he was cut to the core, a full on ogre
as father
wound, through the heart

in tears of rage, he said,
I was worshipping…

said the child, and
he had been

adding
worth, with his whole little fist sized heart,

Dad had been working, in service of some other god,
slowly going mad.