You'll have to forgive my trend as of late.
You won't have to, but you should
as it's nothing personal against you.
Take this as you will, but quite frankly
I wouldn't let anyone matter enough
to say something that'd register
as more than another blip
on the vast radar of meaningless conversation.
Your thoughts and words
just don't hold that much water
around here anymore.
That being said, I love you all
as only a penitent sinner can.
Take, for instance, a perfect
sociological example: the customary wake.
I went to one recently, hair gel
leather shoes and a black pinstriped shirt
one size too small
hidden with a wool peacoat
that made me sweat bullets
as if I owed someone there money.
--pardon me, I seemed to have dropped
my razor in the sink.--
So there I was, dressed to the nines
despite the denim jeans for lack of anything better
trying to seem comfortable around
ninety people, most of which I'd never seen
before, the rest of which were oddly removed family.
I stood in line with my mother
knelt down before the open casket
and paid my respects to the patriarch
of that side of the family.
What I said in my head I meant with my heart
and the part of me still soft truly believes
that somehow the waxen man before me heard.
That was the easy part.
When I turned and faced his nearly blind widow
sitting in the wheelchair I tried to think of what to say.
My turn came. I squatted down, held her hands
and whispered my identity in her ear.
Luckily her English is better than my grandmother's
so she understood most of my bit
but it didn't matter-- what could I possibly say?
The only words that came out were ones she'd heard:
that I was sorry, that he was a great man
that I hadn't seen this many family members gathered
in a long time and it would've made him happy
and then the lie-- that I'd pray for her
as if I still believe in anything other than my two hands
in front of me, and even those are questionable at times.
A lie! To a woman who'd just lost her husband
of sixty-three years and would probably be next to go.
I was lower than dirt. I was the most despicable Spic there.
I kissed my grandmother's sister-in-law on the cheek
rubbed her shoulder and walked away with the sad face on
the one that everyone else seemed to pull off perfectly
after their stroll to the front of the funeral parlor.
As I walked past a sign on the wall
I learned the real name of the deceased
for the first time: Eusebio.
And all this time I'd only known him as Chevin.
--sorry, that coughing fit in the shower
brought some of my dinner back up.--
I felt bad, I was saddened, I am not a heartless brute.
But I was thinking more of the end of the man's pain
and was happy for him.
I looked around and saw all these charlatans
pretending to care one second, laughing like it was
a cocktail party the next. It sickened me.
I went from corner to corner trying not to seem awkward
but it wasn't my most convincing performance.
My mother came up and told me I should go get some
fresh air since my forehead was beaded with sweat.
I did.
It was no better out there, though.
I called my girlfriend to try to escape the madness
but could only manage to keep her on the line for ten minutes.
There were at least five others sitting in various parked vehicles
who had left the building, but I didn't have my mother's keys
and was too ashamed to ask for them.
Pacing around the parking lot seemed strange
and impolite so I made my way back to the door.
There were men I'd never seen before
smoking and carrying on about inappropriate things
like the funeral parlor was the clubhouse at a golf course
the nineteenth hole, and not a place to say goodbye to someone.
One of them was even wearing a leather motorcycle jacket
with chains around the shoulder and an insignia on the back.
I wanted to smack the Marlboro out of his mouth
grab him by the collar, and shove him against the wall.
I wanted to badly.
And if I were the man I write myself to be sometimes
I would have.
But I can't always pretend to be the hero, not even in words.
It's a tiring stretch.
I walked back inside and found my mother.
She said I looked green and asked if I'd thrown up.
We left half an hour later.
I didn't attend the funeral the next day.
--please hold while I turn the water off.
the bug washed off the wall of the shower
didn't fit through the drain and drowned.
how unfortunate.--
My mother said the people who wailed uncontrollably
and had to be escorted out of the church
were the ones who used to go hit the old man up
for gas money, a twenty or a fifty at a time.
I didn't miss much.
Just another blown chance to call a spade a spade.
And that's just it, I can't handle most personal encounters.
It's gotten to the point where I avoid them all most times.
If I can't help you and you can't help me
then what's the sense in pretending otherwise
and wasting precious time with forced conversation
that I could spend reading and you could spend...
...whittling, for all I care.
Excuse the partial blasphemy or misinterpretation
but wasn't it Christ who said something to the effect of
"He who isn't with me is against me" or something similar?
Christ, or Orenthal James?
Either way, at least my view is not that extreme.
We just serve no purpose to each other.
I'd much rather entertain myself
than try to make you understand
any of the things floating around in my head.
I'd rather communicate this way
to hundreds of people at a time
than become frustrated in a more personal venue.
You can opt not to read this, I can find something better to do
with my life than to write it, but in the meantime
we're still talking, right?
Right.
Wrong.
I'm not listening.
And besides, you're not saying much back
other than the oh-so-clever references and misconstrued quotes
to insinuate that you've been checking in.
Well that's just dandy and incredibly original, really.
The Wizard had his (amazingly phallic) Emerald City
and commercial grade curtain to hide behind;
just leave me my door and my oversized obsolete monitor.
Now anyone care for a cocktail?
I swear I'm not such a shit with a few in me.
This one's for you, Unc.
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