8.12.2014

Another Bulb Blown

I haven’t been writing. The explanation
is I’ve been living. But what is living
without writing? And also, how many
brilliant lights must be extinguished
before we give a collective fuck? I mean
an actual fuck, not a flowery, pining
wish-it-weren’t-so sigh, glorifying death
all glittery & shit, strung with quotes
and the most flattering photos
of the actor in his prime or your friend
when he wasn’t completely wasted.

I actually caught myself thinking
comedians have it the worst, as though
morbid six-foot-deep depression were just
another station on the track of life
if you’re unlucky enough to board the C train.
Lucky for the rest of us, I guess, until
or maybe including the moment of our loss
when we rally, circle round holding hands,
light some candles, fetishizing death
intoning you’re always in our hearts as though
it’s true. But it’s not. Mostly we keep
our totems squirrelled away in a box
under the bed, reduced to trivia in a game
where the prize is another beer. I haven’t been
writing. Maybe he had stopped telling jokes.