https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iwmu-HDb9cI
listen.
I watch the old tapes on mute, to be honest,
but I
still hear that grainy sound.
without me taking care of the films,
by now they’d be breaking down.
exposed to heat and humidity,
the videos would be faded out.
any debt that I had to the family…
I wish it was paid, now.
listen.
I’m not
usually one to walk away from things.
my ex used to love that about me
and told me the ability to argue my point was,
strangely…
arousing.
but I
wish I could turn off my loyalty
to the people around me,
I’m worried they’re dragging me down,
and won’t help when I’m drowning.
listen.
it’s hard to talk about a funeral
that
only criminals attend.
it’s hard to talk about how
happy I am
that Jimmy is dead.
it’s hard to talk about why I
never called him my dad.
it’s
hard not to see him
when I raise my own hands…
either in solace or
anger.
platitude or
rage.
or rested on his tombstone,
“qui riposa” engraved…
listen.
you can hear the sink drip.
the bottle of pills in a loose grip.
listen.
you can hear the sirens, the yelling,
the generational fear...
silence.
you can hear the bag zip.
maybe they’ll film me on my way down the road.
I don’t know.
I
guess I’d like to be remembered on a grainy old roll…
I wish they listened.