Famous Last Words

It isn't often that what you say is important. More attention is paid to actions. But there are moments in our lives when the right thing being said makes all the difference. The moment just before death would be one such time. Last words are given weight and assume an almost immortal quality. Their importance is suggested merely by the fact that they are the last words a person speaks before dying...so, whatever is said, must be important. Now, it may not be possible to put much thought into this, planning to say something profound, since it is impossible to know the exact time of our deaths. You might think you're dying any minute, and so, you say the thing you've been planning on saying as your last words. But what if you don't die right after you've said what you thought were going to be your last words? What if you go on living for days or weeks or months? You can't just remain silent for the rest of that time, and to repeat those "last words" later, when you're actually about to die, would not be as significant since you had used them once before. We can't all be lucky enough to say things as profound as "Take care of your mother," or "I'll love you always," or as seemingly arbitrary and intriguing as "Rosebud." And what if you die before you get to finish what you were trying to say. "Always remember..." and then you croak, and those that survive you are left with an unsolvable mystery. Writing a letter to be read posthumously does seem a way to avoid all this uncertainty when it comes to last words. But then, those are not really your last words. They may be the last words of yours that someone reads, but assuming you haven't died immediately after writing the letter, those written words would not be your last. However, the written word does come with its own weight. It is common to believe that someone would not have gone to the trouble of writing something down if it had not been important. You'd also have the opportunity to think about what you want to say and say it right. Hell, you could have it professionally edited and snazzied up by some creative writer. So, maybe written words that you designate to be read after you're dead would hold more significance than ones spoken in your last moments on earth. Or maybe you have no choice in it at all. If I were to die right now, this blog post would be considered my last words...I shudder at the thought.

The Handsome Fatboy

He's good looking.
A full head of hair,
strong brown eyes,
and a nice smile.
He's got a beard,
which many women like.
He is conventionally
attractive in the face.
He's got symmetrical features.

But he's fat.

Not out of shape,
not big-boned,
not husky, Rubenesque, or fluffy.

Just fat.

Over weight.
Heavy.
Too heavy to sit
on certain types of chairs,
like wicker or those
plastic ones for the lawn.
Too heavy to ride a roller coaster.

Thick and wide too.
Too thick and wide
to fit in the seats
on a plane or in a booth
at a diner comfortably.

You can see him adjusting his T-shirt,
pulling it down in front to cover
the bulge of his belly
that dips down
over his belt.
You can see him pulling at the waist
of his jeans, trying to keep them up,
keep them from falling too far
to expose the long, deep
crack of his ass.

And he breaths loudly at times,
sounding out of breath, even when
he's at rest. And you can hear it,
when he walks, and even more intensely
when he runs, though he never runs.
And he sweats too. All the time.
No matter what.

He makes fat jokes. He laughs
at himself. He pulls attention
toward his fat, the way gravity
pulls everything.
You can laugh with him, and you do.
Because he's the one making fun.
He's funny and he's handsome.
So, he's got that going for him.

Another old poem...

Perpetual Predator

Time crawls,
creeps,
slithers.

Time whispers.

Time trails,
shadows,
tracks.

Time hunts.

Time chases,
rushes,

pounces.

Haiku

I wrote these on a scrap of paper, long ago, which I recently rediscovered:

Truth

What are you hiding?
It's behind your dark glasses.
The sun is setting.

Lies

Snagging your eyelids
like fishhooks, pulling them closed,
shutting out the truth.

Love

It melts like ice cream
dropped on the hot blacktop in
a sticky puddle.

Water

Rushes and gushes
currents carving stone, a wave,
a ripple, droplets.

Words

Heavy and hulking,
they crush planets into dust
and are forgotten.

All Employees Must Wash Hands

Hand dryers bellow
the sound of a thousand breaths.
Whispers chase water.


More to come...or maybe less...