Death Like a Blind Date
10 April 2021 Saturday Poetry Prompt: repeatable
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm — and your memory in my head three years after — And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud — wept, realizing how we suffer — Allen Ginsberg, “Kaddish”
Death is like a blind date that just won’t leave. Seeing something in you, that you don’t see in her; and after awkward goodbyes and efforts to get her back in the car to take her home — she latches onto your arm and talks of marriage and children going to Catholic school.
Like the sun shinning in a small circle out in left field so, the outfielder doesn’t get wet and thinks — Christ this Is cool, just before the lightning strike that takes him out.
Death is a punchline; an image on an old box of chocolates no one will admit to giving, while waiting for the candles to finally burn down on the birthday cake that no one seems interested in eating anyway.
Like a pause in the time continuum just before the light turns red and the Pontiac Firebird races through the intersection, ignoring reason and the girlfriend trying to exit next to him, because she sees the outcome better than you.
Death is a period. A grammatical portend of, wait a fucking minute, I’m not quite ready — as the earth continues spinning, smiles continue appearing on faces and life as we know it, is crazily repeating itself over and over again.
Like a moment when time steps up on a soapbox and utters profanities at clergy standing in the back, while reciting the Charge of the Light Brigade in Yiddish in hopes it will distract.
Death, like too much candy, will eventually rot the teeth, bring on, Adult-Onset Diabetes and raise cholesterol levels just thinking of how it will interact with the Viagra taken as “Sayonara” plays in an endless loop on Alexa.
Like a lawnmower racing unmanned up and down your lawn taking out flamingos and Grandma’s Madonna, as neighbors peer out windows muttering, fucking Wilsons, are at it again.
No, Death is careless and steps on toes and runs over speed humps at 80 MPH while careening into parked cars lined up outside In ‘N Out, looking for a double-double without cheese and thinking — no fucking onions. And latches on to our memories and our hopes and insecurities and plays Scrabble with them while we ponder existentially if we have a choice in the matter.
Like a dream where someone, somehow unlocked your thoughts, stole your memories and gave them to Goodwill, while you sat there weeping into a large bowl of Fruit Loops and forgot to tell him to Fuck Off.
Ginsberg is an acquired taste; but once accustomed to his cadence and use of nouns and verbs and you listen closely — his poems begin to alter the DNA of the words themselves and how they convey meaning. I’ve been familiar with the Kaddish for years and reading it here made me rethink the underlying reason the prayer is spoken aloud.
J.D. Harms Karen Madej Dr Mehmet Yildiz Paul Myers MBA Tree Langdon P.G. Barnett Gurpreet Dhariwal George J. Ziogas Amy Marley Harley King Tim Maudlin James Knight Caroline de Braganza Desiree Driesenaar Salvatore Cagliari janny’s heart Michele Thill Trista Signe Ainsworth Kira Dawn ScienceDuuude Britni Pepper Liam Ireland R Tsambounieri Talarantas Paroma Sen Adelia Ritchie, PhD Terry L. Cooper Jenine Bsharah Baines Noorain Hassan, BMS Maryam