Tuesday, July 5, 2016


[A dozen hours into my day,
and I feel like I'm finally awake.
Twelve hours of sun-up,
and it's threatening to go down now,
but it's not concerned with me.
And I'm fine with that, I'm fine on my own.]

There's talk and chatter of death; consequently of a service I'll miss.
There's the tittering of old maids, the weeping of widows,
and the muted musings of mortality from the young; who for a day don't get to feel invincible.
There are men of no consequence, whispering through the steam of overpriced lattes, passing a carnival in the tar-slow procession and lording over stilted conversations in black and blue.

A silent body passes in a gloss black hearse, shining hubcaps rolling over oily asphalt, and I salute.
Whether by heart or bullet or fire, I can't tell,
but a flame of alarm rises in my chest and boils my lungs and my blood and my beliefs; and I can't
believe how I've gotten stuck in the halls between these walls, and I'm trapped, and I'm fading to black like the tinted windows that follow the silent tracks of the dead.
Eyes from this macabre parade gaze on, gaze out, gaze at me through windows,
and I gaze back from mine, knowing, but unwilling to climb out, even to pay respects.

Automobiles creak by, herded by the oscillating strobes of motorcycles, and within a hundred thousand turns of light, they are all gone and passed. In moments, they are shepherded forward and into some sacred dirt yard for their loved one, or friend, or boss, or loved one's loved one to be interred with the bones of a hundred others that pioneered the way for them to return straight to the earth.

There should have been a talk over a casket; a service I missed.
There's the eulogy I never spoke, never wrote, and there's the struggle of a hundred hearts to swim in a panicked wave of grief; but not me. The service is not for the friend I miss.
Funerals aren't truly for the dead, and maybe the service was beautiful,
a rite of passage,
but I almost always miss
because I'm not sure I'll come back.