Elegy

Hey Greg, you big dick, if I'm wrong --
If you see the Almighty in Heaven --
Give him the Finger for me too, OK?
Tell him I think he's an asshole.
He's a self-righteous pervert,
Impaled his own firstborn;
He fucks the eye sockets of corpses, and
Tell him I never liked his Book.

The Bishop, who barely knew you
Glared at Jonah in his torn sneakers
Reading Carlos Castaneda.
The church was under construction,
All uprooted pansies and slag,
And nothing to drink.
We stood outside in a huddle
And sucked fresh air like smoke.

We who believe in the Void
Find Hell in the spaces between us
We know how to wear black
But the language of grief is foreign,
The singing and casserole dishes
And comforting lies.
I believed you were coming home soon
I believed I would see you in August.

I keep making up spirits to rage at,
But I can't seem to find them convincing.
Your death is the triumph of entropy,
A flame choked in the stupid air
In a metal box on the other
Side of the world. Hell is
The distance between us, which just
Became infinite.

I know the cup is already broken.
I know the truck will jump the curb
When our backs are turned.
I know the cancer is in us already
(I know they are burning your body)
But I can't know you are dead because
You are the word "alive" to me,
Alert and awake to everything and laughing.

Greg you big dick --
Who the hell am I talking to?

(c) Dorothy J. Hickson