I spoke at church today and wore my hat inside the whole time so “god” couldn’t see my bed-head. I’m still alive. When you’re an equal rights activist you truly have to stick up for what you believe in; please do sign the petition below to let catholic men wear hats indoors – it is only fair that they have the same rights as women. And the same rights as Jewish men. Speaking of which; what do you call a rabbi that converts to Catholicism?
Judas Priest! That’s cheesier than an unwashed uncircumcised penis. Gross, I know. Right?
So, dear diary, today at church, I said fuck. It was written in one of my poems that I had dedicated to my deceased cousin Frankie, my great-aunt’s talented son. Today was the memorial for my great-aunt; my best friend and an essence of purely intoxicating love that I’ll forever miss. I truly don’t know how I can go on in life without her, because she’s my everything. That’s why I wrote a whole book for her and have scripts and more books soon to come. Her memory and her soul lives in me and my work as well as the beautiful family and friends she has touched. She lit up a room and she wasn’t even a terrorist or an armed gunman who hates his in-laws.
Standing at the alter, or pew, whatever you call it – it was a defining moment for me; and I, as well as others, feel that Rose would’ve have been proud. It was nice to hear. Between poems I reminisced about our times in the cemetery, when we visited my grandma-her sister, and the rest of the fallen family. We would look at the names on the graves, and those who she thought she had known; she would ask me to look them up on the “Internet” or “Facebook” to see if they’re alive and to see if she aged better than they did. Zizi was vain, but she had the right to be, her cheeks were as soft and smooth as a baby’s bottom. She was a floozy-ish 91 year old who occasionally wore see-through white shirts with a vibrant cheetah bra to maybe get the attention of the “Hot Priest” that she was ever so fond of. Walking through the sea of graves, I would ask her if she had banged any of these deceased rigor-mortis-bonered men and she would retort “If I slept with them they’d still be alive wanting more.” Which led me to believe that the one who once lived in a convent was possibly a good lay.
Also one of my favorite Rosie quotes was: “How many people do you think are dead in here?” And I would reply, “A few thousand.” Quickly to be interrupted by, “They’re all dead! It’s a cemetery!” Followed by a naive chuckle. It doesn’t get old. It’ll never get old – only I shall get old.
To conclude my church journey, while I was reading my dedicated poetry and taking verbal trip down memory lane, the universal synchronic symphony spoke by letting the sun shine through the stained-glass windows on this cloudy and gloomy day; the vibrant hue of yellow-orange ember shadowed behind me while I played several of my saved voice-mails for all to hear the voice of an angel; my Zizi. That beautiful light also lit up the choir woman’s hair while she grimaced at me dropping the “F-Word” and speaking of fornication in the house of the holy. I was told she uttered something to herself, repentance possibly. Good for her. And though many of you can tell by the context of this tale that organized religion and I don’t dance, and I feel it’s the death of humankind, and is a primordial thought that only deprives humans of true growth; and also that it should’ve been buried a long time ago with Jesus and all the tyrannical Kings that revised and revised to accommodate their necessities – despite all of that, I know Rose loved it. She loved the music, the attention and all the people; so for me to speak in a place where she cherished and to do it in honor of her, to praise her, a visible being that I believe in; a being that taught me love and goodness – it made me happy and grateful. And it made me happy to make the family and friends in attendance smile, laugh and cry; all because of her imprinted spirit and that infectious “Hello”.
I’ll see you again,
I don’t know where or how,
All I can say is –
So long for now.
P.S. I snorted a line of your ashes.
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust,
Is what becomes of us.