Survivor

I saw Heaven today.
It’s been a while.
Counting batteries back in the dark by the orthopedics.
She holds a pen light in her teeth and a dull pencil in her left hand.
Beads of sweat on her throat twinkling like far-away parking lots.
“Hey, you, Mister,” she says.
“Hey, you, Heaven,” I reply.
A renegade lock escapes her Scrunchy and tickles her cheek. She twitches it away then spins it to gold.
“You ever watch that show Survivor?” she asks. “You look just like that one guy.”
“No, Heaven,” I tell her. “But it’s on my list.”

Working on it.

She went on the television to talk about that thing what she wrote.
She wore a dress that he ain't never seen; like maybe she borrowed that from her sister.
She purred and cooed out there but said smart stuff too like she does but still wore a dress that he ain't never seen; like maybe she borrowed that from her sister.
"Good morning, Prickly Pear," she says, fishing a clump of cat hair from his beard and spit-slicking his impertinent, dangerous bangs.
"You see me on the tele?" she asks, juggling tenderly the various paths in and out of his body holes.
He did.
She's just about there.
When they were your age they both saw themselves there. They might use the moon's gravity, scream around the far side, and skid to a sloppy stop in the puddle of old and done.
“Not doing this without you,” she says.
She scratches her nose.
He thinks he wishes he’d counted the times she’d scratched a nose what don’t itch.
“Working on it,” he tells her. “Working on it.”

Din

A song from way back then.  You know you knew it.
Safe and at arm's length.
You can't remember if you hated or loved the tune. Maybe you knew the artist.
"Can you turn that down?" you whisper.
Something you used to know.
"Sure thing, boss," she whispers back. "Turn what down?"

New Jersey

People go home to die.

"I don't have that," she says. "I mean - I don't know what that means."

 Probably a question in there somewhere.

"New Jersey?" he asks.

"Don't act like you figured me out," she complains.

Because he would do.

Jesus Christ...

She asked, "When you get to Heaven can you find someone for me?"
"Sure, kid," he told her.
Then he thought about Heaven and Jesus and about how tense it must be, what with the Rapture and shit.
Jesus is probably pretty stressed.
He's been here once already.
That time they poked him with a spear then wrote a wordy-long-sing-song book about the whole affair and ended up making some pretty bad cinema and television after the fact.
Jesus is probably distracted, pacing, and in no hurry to get back to this mess.
Maybe you would approach him on a bench.
You'd be like, "Hey man, where's the best tunes?" and he would be like, "Not now, okay?"
Then you'd be like, "Chill out, Christenheimer. I'm just trying to find someone for a kid back home."
Then Jesus would be all, "My bad. But seriously. Can this wait? Sort of in the middle of something."

Christmas Eve, 2012.

It’s the night before Christmas where blankets of snow
Follow or find me wherever I go
Drifting then melting then freezing again
Faces and seasons and lifetimes and when
I feel the World tug - her harsh invitation
Where time has no reference, no fixed demarcation
Falling or flying might be the same thing
To a bird with one hand; to a man with one wing
“I’ll make it that far,” I said when I started
To ghosts in the making, my dearly departed
But I didn’t know - still don’t I dare say
I paid for tomorrows, took home yesterdays.

Tuesday

Today used to be my birthday.

"Tuesday?" she asks.

Yes. Tuesday.

Tuesday used to be my birthday.