Thrift store Jacket

I  scan the aisles of discarded things.  Underpaying homage to bygone days and fashion flings.  Everything I tried was a size too big or a style too old.   Searching scouring, until finally– I found it.  I Rifled through the pockets and ensured the zippers zipped, while trying not to think of the person who wore it before, and the reason their garment was discarded to the thrift store.  And I hate the way you smell, because you smell like someone else.  And every torn seam and frayed sleeve tells of your history without me.  But you keep me warm. And I’ll keep you safe.  Remind myself that I’m the one you’re draped around today.  And soon your pockets are filled with our things and the places we’ve been.  And I’ll never leave home or brave the cold without you again.  


I hate it when someone says they need space.  Space is the cold dead nothingness that surrounds the world.  Space is the black chalkboard without anything thoughtful or profound written upon it. Space is the ocean between two ships slowly pushing them apart.  Space is the festering pit where monsters like doubt and miss-communication  breed, multiplying spilling out onto the decks of our vesseled hearts.  Given enough space, those monsters will feed on each other and grow into infidelity.  The space becomes so big other people fit into that space.  And so when I try to reach out to you instead my fingers go into his eyes, or when you try to whisper to me your voice goes into her ears, and the monsters– they multiply.  Space should be squashed immediately with closeness in the form of hugs and company, sex and conversation so the friction and static between our two bodies keep us warm at night and fuel is through the day.  If you need space, it’s likely in that very moment I need the complete opposite of space– us.

The King of the Mountain

I am the King of the Mountain!

Hard pressed’ and beset
on all sides by usurpers
and conquerors,

I have won the struggle to the top.
So that all may fear me,
so that all may envy
the glittering prize
I have clutched within my fist.

Regardless’ of my milky blind eye,
and my lame leg lost in the pursuit of it.

My entrails spilled’
and lost somewhere among
the thorny bluffs,
but still on I pressed.

My heart slipped from the hollow
cavity of my chest,
so that when I beat upon my breast
plate all the others can hear is my roar–

Victor!  Conqueror!

And from a distance down the steep sides
they can’t see my limp or my scars,
all they see is me and my prize.

I am the King of the Mountain!

I do not sleep alone.
But I have given up all that was of me… t
o sit upon the mountain throne.

I am the King of the Mountain!

I am.

The king.

Of absolutely nothing.

My Funeral

Some people spend all their lives dreaming about their perfect wedding, or their perfect birthday party.  For me, I’m planning the perfect funeral.  Now this isn’t a cry for help, or any proof that I’m suicidal or anything of the sort.  I’m a happy camper, and I’m not going to die until I’m good and ready.   I just think it’s important to be prepared for this sort of thing and have at least a decent plan.  Otherwise, the last and lasting memory people will have of me will be left to chance.  I want my funeral to be epic.

Funerals are by far the best party, because it’s the only party that is truly about me. Any normal celebration, wedding/anniversary/birthday I’m constantly concerned about other people:  “Oh are my friends going to get along if I seat them together”  “Are my folks having a good time?”  “Is everybody being properly entertained?” “Has everyone had enough to drink?”  “Has anyone had too much to drink?”     When I’m dead, none of that will matter.  All that will matter is me.  I’m dead, look at me pay attention to me and be sad.  Very, very sad.

Besides, Other people are supposed to plan those parties for you.  A wedding is a cooperative plan.  An anniversary is a cooperative plan.  A birthday… well people who throw birthday parties for themselves… that’s just sad.  Almost as sad as a funeral I suppose, especially if no one shows up.

So here’s what I want:

A Closed casket Funeral
If I’m dead I am not looking my best.  If I die old, then the years and time will have taken their toll on me, wearing down a once handsome and chiseled visage to a sagging mass of wrinkled, incontinent elderly.  Ask any elderly person how they see themselves when they dream; they see themselves as a spry and able 20-something year old.  Old age is a disease of the body not of the mind.  If I die old, I don’t want to be remembered as old.  I want to be remembered as my mind remembers me, which is right around the age I am now.

If I die young, well chances are something pretty bad happened.  Disease, cancer, being cut in half because I wrapped my car around a tree truck doing ninety miles an hour in the middle of the night, or dying in a hail of unfriendly gunfire.  In which case, I’m probably not in good shape to be on display.  I’ll be like one of those returned electronic devices that are resold at Best Buy.  You just show off the box to give people a general idea of what the product looks like, because inside it’s missing a few screws and the top is cracked.

A closed casket makes the most sense.  Embalmers and makeup artists can try to work their magic as best they can, but it’ll never be quite as good as alive me.  I want the best photos of me from my social media (facebook, instagram all that jazz) to be plastered up all over the place.  I want to look alive and vibrant, even though I am dead and static.  I want people to remember that I was a handsome devil.

An excellent Soundtrack
Funerals normally have such drab and forgettable music.  I want my funeral to have an epic soundtrack that represents all the high and low points of my life.  None of this Enya crap, but heavy stuff that makes you think and sink:

Joseph Arthur – In the Sun
Death Cab for Cutie – What Sarah Said
Death Cab for Cutie – Follow you into the Dark
Ben Howard – Oats on the Water
Thrice – Words on the Water
Chevelle – One Lonely Visitor

An Open Buffet
I want a cafeteria style open buffet.  I want all my grieving friends and relatives to be eating side by side, shoulder to shoulder.  I know some Buddhist/Asian cultures don’t believe in eating meat at a funeral (something about the risk of the person being reincarnated into one of the animals), but rather I want there to be copious amounts of meat.

A Video with a special message
After the majority of people have finished chowing down and they’re just milling about trying to figure out what to do with the rest of their afternoon,  I want a special pre-recorded video message to play.  In this video I will be sitting in a chair, smiling.  People will see me alive and vibrant, and they’re feel that first twinge of sadness and loss.  And then I’ll start talking:

“Hey everyone, I just wanted to thank you so much for coming to my funeral.  I really appreciate all of you taking the time to mourn me.  Each one of you have touched my life in such a deep and profound way… in the days and weeks to follow while you’re mourning me and missing me, I want each and every one of you to remember, that even though I’ve passed on there is a piece of me inside of each and every one of you.” 

And then I will pause and smile for an uncomfortable ten seconds, just so people truly let those words sink in.

“…in fact, just to show you how much you’ve touched my life, I’ve made sure there is a piece of me inside of each of you.  How was lunch guys?  How about that meat?  Did it taste familiar?  Did it taste like… ME?

and then I’ll begin to laugh maniacally for as long as I possibly can.  At this point people should be getting sick.  They should be throwing up their food and clamoring for the restrooms.   Aunties and uncles will turn ashen knowing they’ve eaten their nephew.  Hopefully someone will have fainted.

And I’ll be laughing and laughing from whichever afterlife I’ve arrived at.

…probably hell.

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