i hate when people use big words to make themselves seem smart,
plethora is overused.
and recluse is really a word
it's not out of my head like figglewuzz was.

i stopped biting my nails,
why didn't you?
it's a filthy habit
worse than your cigarettes and those other vulgarities you'd abuse.

it's not that i'm a hypocrite
i just like to see you how i perceive,
something a bit more pristine.
but you look like death when you wear white,
it's not your color.
neither is orange.
or yellow.
i'm thinking when this day is over,
when this plastic version of you is buried,
i'm going to throw your tacky shit out of the closet.

or maybe tomorrow.

people talk in circles about how they'll grieve,
how much they loved, how much they'll miss,
so i'm thinking,
it's great that people can still speak parenthetically...
yeah, them with their whispers
with their gossip too,
people having something better to do with their fuc-king time.

i'm thinking...
no matter what,
you look like shit,
baby doll, death bed, cutie pie, sugar smack.
your lips are so black they're almost blue,
so blue they're almost purple,
and about that plumb-colored throw rug you bought
maybe when i go home tonight,
maybe, i'll burn it.

and in between touches of the eye with aloe vera kleenex
they use words like
fragility, uncertainty, tragedy, devastation,
and the circle goes on and on and on and on
with all that appropriate party bullshit
until i acknowledge how pale you look, how pale,

hail mary,
proud mary,
mother of... pearl.

i'm thinking about how much money i could have saved,
had you held on a bit longer
and we could have bought the farm together...
kicking the bucket was never a game i'd imagine you playing alone,
but here we are,
you with your pearl face, in a box lined with some pastel shade of satin,
me with my pearl accessories, and torn navy-blue panty hose,
neither one of us complimented by our surroundings.

burnt orange is a terrible color.
the carpet, the upholstery, the edge work on the ceiling fans,
just not serene, not so true to life,
i'll never understand why churches and funeral homes pick such motifs.
unsettling, awkward, unnerving.
it makes me think of your grandmother and bozo the clown.

all the same are these people who knew you,
everything they say is past-tense, forgotten...
them and their dictionary mouths
their thesaurus tendencies,
encyclopedias of trivial memories,
they just can't come to grips with simplicity.

instead of dead they say passed on,
they say perished,
they say some place better,
they say deceased instead of dead,
blah, blah, blah,

i’m thinking…
it's a dead giveaway,
and i'm smiling (inside).

and still we're surrounded in this
plethora of decay
plethora of charity flowers
plethora of dead-man tuxes
in this ocean of empathetic tears
oh please...
as if it makes any sense that i have yet to drown,
kill me now
swallow me now
bury me beside you
kicking and screaming
"i want out!"
just as we were, always and forever.

and i'm thinking how you left the basement in disarray,
how you left me unkempt and untidy,
and i'm wishing i could have you back again
(only to help ease my current social status).
they seem to act so much friendlier to the bereaved,

hands folded. nails bitten.
i'm thinking when this day is over,
when this backwards version of you is earthed,
i'm going to burn this parlor down...

maybe tomorrow.
maybe in the plethora of tomorrows to come.

everything here is dead or dying, pale
nothing is skin-tone,
everything out of place in containers
but always prepared for tomorrow,
too bad memories don't fade like elders say they do,
like yesterday...
i'm thinking burnt orange may be the new black.

07/06/2005

Posted on 07/06/2005
Copyright © 2010 Nicole Hyde