Prose VI


After the feast, I have to scrape the table. All these rogue vowels and dangling participles must be edited with bleach. I need clean blue sky because I need the sun to play with outside. If all the worlds around all the suns of all the galaxies end up in the dark, existence is so in the dust. Who will remember me then? History will be history. In the great parking lot of opposition known as the real world, I will not feel at home because nowhere is anonymous. Words then from God are cold. Get over it. Shut off the noise in the house, Death is at the door. His sister, Dying, has come to school us and to work the work, inauspiciously. Death comes like Sunday after church, doing it after hearing a sermon written just for me. He tickles, goes down the funny bone hard, and makes me laugh now so that the children will be confused. In my opinion, Death has many offices and faces. Writing about him and his family now is my duty just as afuture it will have been my duty.



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