Grave

In the harsh glare of an easily reprehensible life. The channel changer is lost in the crack of an infinite sofa. Everything falls apart, everything breaks down, torn into a million fragments, Jericho everyday. I want to be the blameless victim in this canceled puppet show, the marionette every mother loves, the one souvenirs are modeled from. (In that lifetime, Elton John will write mushy ballads just for me. Michael Jackson will want to be my best friend. He’d take me to the Neverland Ranch, and by the llama feeding trough, he’d say something like, “You’re a great guy, don’t give up, stay positive!” And I’d say, “Michael, you fucking idiot, I am positive!” And he’d say, “Oh, you’re so funny! Would you like to touch Bubbles?” And I would.) In the crux of my hollow innocent youth, I believed that my teddy bears had feelings. To cure me of this, my guardians made me give them to the church missionaries’ children. Scrubbed-clean rosy-cheeked blonde kids who smelled of sweat and talc, who were in constant wide-blue-eyed bewilderment as to why they were profusely perspiring in the tropics, instead of living out some winter wonderland Bobsey Twins fantasy, who were oblivious to their parents’ desperate efforts to save the dusky masses, ignorant enough to believe in the secret lives of stuffed animals. I could not eat animal crackers because I did not want to hurt the poor things; but, braised the right way, I could eat any part of a pig, starting with the head, working on the soft flesh around the eyes, savoring its raspy tongue with a dipping sauce of ginger, chilies and lime. Oh blameless innocent victim. What measures a lifetime? I used to have this theory about how much life a human body could hold. It all had to do with the number of heartbeats. Each human is assigned a number determined by an unknown power cascading over the dark waters of the unformed Earth. For some, it was a magnificently high number, seen only in Richie Rich comics, and for others, it was frightfully low, like twenty-six. No bargaining, no coupons, no White Flower Day sale, no specials. Once you hit your number, you croak. I imagined the angels in heaven and the demons in hell gathering to watch the counters turn, like how I enjoyed watching the speedometer line up to a row of similar numbers, and especially when the row of nines turned into the row of zeros. Oh blameless innocent victim. What measures eternity? An eternal damnation. An everlasting love. I could not imagine the night sky stretched out forever, so I decided that it came to an end at some point, by a velvet rope it ended and beyond that rope were row after row of cushioned seats, a majestic cosmic theater, playing every movie I can remember. I want to be able to evoke those blameless and innocent days, to revel in their ignorance and goodness as if they have the power to protect and to heal, and to strengthen, and to bring me to safety long after all other resources were exhausted. But I emerge anew in the wreckage, blinking in the sunlight, the residue of salt water in my belly. You know what they say, God never closes a door before making sure that the windows are barricaded and the fire escape is inaccessible. I used to know how to stop the revolution of planets. I used to know how to save the world. Now, I don’t know anything anymore.