One Hundred Thousand Dead

One hundred thousand dead, pink throw pillow, bloody nose, dope infested dust bowl, cement

wasteland, grieving mother, one time thing. Never forget, never remember, never realize in the

first place, never look inside the casket. They put wax on the lips of corpses so the fluid doesn't

drip out and scare the family. It scared me anyways, I look outside and see bodies stacked up

like the black plague, hidden behind emerald Oz curtains I can never push back because my

hands are too hot. Last spring I drove past an elementary school where somebody took a 9 mm

Kel-Tec SUB2000 pistol and shot 3 third graders and I was mortified that all I could do was

weigh the tragedies against each other, hold them in my hands and mesh them together and

selfishly wonder why you didn't matter to everybody like you mattered to me. I misspoke, it was

one hundred and seven thousand, it was seventeen people at the funeral, it was black socks

and undercooked hashbrowns and blue eyes that were nearly black, somebody stepped on a

perfect sand dollar on the sidewalk, all your seven doves lay crushed there. I remember when I

showed you Dynasty. You hated it even more than I thought you would. My dynasty lives in the

cement cracks downtown, between crack vomit and a child's lost shoe. I've never understood

how you lose just one. When I lose, I lose it all. When you die, you only have 20 minutes to

make your renascence and then it's all, all gone.