No mass will anyone sing, no Kaddish will anyone say — neither said, nor sung — by none — when I’m done.
But maybe one day . . ?
When the weather’s bright & gay . . out for a stroll in [M]arch — my Paulina — alongside [f]rench [K]ristin.
With garlands of evergreen, comes she . . to adorn my grave & sigh, “Oh, my poor guy,” . . wet melancholy in her eye.
(Alas, dwell I way too high, that even for my sweet, a stool I can’t supply.)
(Geez, her weary wobbling feet.)
(Sweetie, fatty, don’t go back to your house by foot; at the curb, grab a cab . . or a duck . . or a purse.)
“Commemoration Service” @ NYBooks.com ¶ “Scene: Why a Duck?” @ Marx-Brothers.orgIt’s over.
It really is.
It’s time for the two of us to say goodbye.
Why?
Because you’re afraid of roller coasters.
Scared to death of them.
You say your [penis] head will be crushed by some piece of metal [in my vagina], or you’ll slip and fall out, or look at how many screws there are, one or two of them must be loose.
And before I can explain that there are a lot of screws just for that reason, you’re already talking about how you can’t stand the idea of lying dead — broken-necked — on the floor of some filthy tourist trap.
But you’ll do heroin.
Are you not afraid of lying dead in some alley with a needle in your arm, or having seizures on some dirty sidewalk — with your friends too stupid or wasted or afraid to call 9-1-1?
No, you’re not.
Why?
Cause you’re a real selfish idiot, that’s why.
You wont even ride the little one on Santa Monica Pier with me.
Honor, please don’t make me, you plead.
And I laugh, and we kiss with the smell of the sea and a thousand tourists in our noses.
And your lips taste like Marlboro Blacks and a strawberry funnel cake.
And I loved that day.
I loved your lips. I loved the chicken pox scar over your left eyebrow. I loved the rings under your eyes. I loved your clammy hands holding my shoulder blades under my shirt. I loved how your voice cracked at the prospect of roller coasters.
I loved you.
But now I’m going to go ride roller coasters — lots of them — without you.
“Dramatic Teen Monologue” (2014) @ YouTube.com ¶ “911 Is a Joke” by Public Enemy @ YouTube.com ¶ [A Flea Flicker] @ YouTube.com ⁋Don’t kill yourself.
Don’t kill yourself.
Don’t.
Eat a donut.
Be a blown nut.
That is — if you’re going to kill yourself — stand on a street corner rhyming “seizure” with “Indonesia.”
And “wreck it” with “racket.”
Allow medical terms.
Rave and fail.
Be an absurd living ghost — if necessary.
But don’t kill yourself.
Let your friends know that something has passed or be glad they’ve guessed.
But don’t kill yourself.
If you stay — but are bat crazy — you will batter their hearts in blooming scores of anguish, but kill yourself and hundreds of other people die.
Poison yourself, it poisons the well.
Shoot yourself, it cracks the biodome.
I will give badges to everyone who’s figured this out about suicide and hence rejected it.
I’m grateful.
Stay.
Thank you for staying.
Please, stay.
You are my hero for staying.
I know about it and I’m grateful you stay.
Eat a donut.
Rhyme “opus” with “lotus.”
“Rope” is “bogus psychosis.”
Stay.
“Hocus pocus.”
“Hocus pocus.”
Don’t kill yourself.
I won’t either.
§
Feb 2025