Behind the rocks there

is something mysterious --


You'd better not look.

'Thank you, it's a gift from my father.'
She tells me with a smile.
A small silver ring, cradled in her hand.
'It's fine, I love to swim'
An hour underwater,
Together, a moment of fun.
'See you next week!'
Her healing smile warms my body,
Gentle voice soothing my soul.
'See you then.'
She leaves with a smile,
While I return to shower.


'Do you wish to speak?'
A teary woman asks,
Face familiar through the daze.
'What can I even say?'
Sitting in a packed church,
Voice like a zombie.
'She was so happy that you found her ring...'
I nod and say nothing,
The woman leaves me be.
'And it was all Yellow...'
Coldplay, your favourite song,
I swear will haunt me forever.

'It's been 20 years...'
Even so, tears still fall.
Blurring out a dull reality.
'I'm doing fine.'
Lying through clenched teeth,
I hear her scold me in my mind.
'*******.'
Time stripped away her face,
Voice an empty echo.
'And it was all Yellow.'
The song hits me hard,
Sobbing in the supermarket.

Felt like an eternity waiting for your birthday
now death is all you wait for
the presents wrapped, was all you crave
now the roses remain still on your grave
so excited, hard to fall asleep the night before
now death is sleep you die for.

No one mourns the wicked,
Not a single lachrymose face in the crowd,
No rainfall from the heavens,
No priest to eulogize or ask forgiveness.

Even the monotone wreaths seem brighter,
The sun shines proudly with its radiant warmth
There is no chill in the zephyrs,
Not even a murmur this morning,
They’re not even wearing black or a shawl.

No, no one mourns the wicked,
There is candor among the many,
Huddled ‘round the casket,
Casting their stones instead of roses
Take into the earth with fleeting retribution.

No one mourns the wicked -
As the ground trembles and trees shake
From the effusive cheers create percussion
A symphony of lost sympathy
As the tombstone reads.

“No one mourns the wicked”

If my desire of immortality
Was not delivered on Tyche's oak desk
And my neck accepted Death's penalty,
Make my funeral transient and modest.

Do not dump me bunch of would-wilt flowers
Nor weep with salty tears upon my earth
Instead scatter me some seeds of asters
For when they blossom it is my rebirth.

Though if God of Wishes grant me this dream,
Erase my name from your reminiscence
As I have ventured out this weary realm—
I'm with the stars flaunting my omniscience.

Either way I'll try to end it laughing,
A fitting mood for my new beginning.

I tried on several of my father’s
old Brooks Brother suits
just before his funeral,
trying to save myself the expense
of an outfit I didn't need.  

Each was too tight on the collars.
too short on the sleeves, each
crotch inseam strangled my manhood.
I had outgrown them all.

Almost all of it will go to Goodwill-
except maybe for those old coal wingtips,
(still in their slightly battered but original box)
heels and soles worn down from hospital rounds,
the leathers evenly laced, spit and
polished to a proper navy shine,
solid and smooth, enough to go from
monolithic to Marley vinyl
without missing a beat.

I could almost hear “The Great Pretender”
play as he glided my future mom
(literally,”The Beauty Queen of Fulton Burrough”)
across the ballroom floor, and then,
suddenly stop, and leave her,
as the hospital pager buzzed on his belt.

All my father- a short, balding but
approachable looking guy, with the
devil’s goatee- ever needed to win
my mother over, was Nat King Cole.
What he left her with, was Harry Belafonte
swooning his existential sorrows out to her-
“Day-o, midnight come and I want to go home.”

I smelled the stale odor of talc
distinguishing itself from moth *****,
and was tempted to slip them on,
but figured the cost to resole them
wouldn't be worth the price. Besides,
that oxblood polish would be too hard
to find.  I left them there for the next
tenant to decide their fate.

The day they lower me into the dirt,
I want to be remembered by my work.
One day when I am six feet under,
I want my treasures torn asunder.
I won’t need riches, wealth, or money.
After all, it’s kinda funny.
They won’t follow me to hell.
I want to be remembered well.
May my art lead others to glee.
May my work make others free.
After all, what’s the point, if it all ends with me?
Art and creation are for confronting mortality.

Condolences can

be a battle: whose loss, whose --


sorrow is greater?