three cheers for whatever’s left after the barbiturate
an ode to Bowser
You die on a towel that smells like me. I can’t be there. I’m 2,850 miles west of your Cold Stream. You should know, it’s sunny here. The shadows want you to chase them, and right outside my window, mama birds give suck to their young. But you’re not here; you're bleeding on a towel somewhere in New Jersey.
Last I saw you, you were a MilkBone craving lampshade—sore-pocked and milk-eyed, your snout lymphoma boiled beneath fine powdered sugar. You laid snoring in trazodone slumber as we sat, swiping through gotcha day photos—bleary-eyed with remember when?s.
You came to us cherry-eyed, your turned apple coat reeking of street sick and winter’s salted wool. You were the first thing I’d see after sulking home from those shitty high school days. The bus door accordioned shut, and there you were, waiting under the oak to nip my heels and slobber my face, and now there you are, meeting god on a towel I dried myself with two days ago that Mom dug out of the hamper so I can “be there.”
Life can be weird sometimes.
But, it can also be good.
It is good.
You taught me that.
You—my perfect little idiot, my stinky prince privy to the happiness lurking in Bounty tubes and bright lights—taught me that everything’s a game. I promise you this my boy, today, I’ll turn life into a game for you, something I’ll gawk at and chase until my hips give out.
Life is good, but it’s scary how it all just kinda ends.
You must feel that, right? That fear? Isn’t it scary how when we sleep, the moon sicks its skeeters and parasites upon us? How their lunar proboscis, needle sharp and reed-like, drink time from our flesh clock? How when we wake, our teeth taste funny, one leg doesn’t work right, and there’s a weird freckle on our nose? Yet, for twelve years, I’ve watched you swivel paws onto the carpet and rise into the day, smiling at shiny things and tones of voice. Rise, smile, go, retire, rise, smile, go…on and on until you reached today’s bifurcation—becoming one part clump of spent hair waiting on indifferent metal for your turn in the fire and one part bioelectric glitch cutting eternal rugs in my hippocampus.
That’s okay; I know it was time to go. You can stay in there if you like, I don’t mind carrying you around up there. All I ask, if I may, is let some of you rub off on me while you’re dancing up there, okay?
I really need that, old friend.
Please?
Just make me feel the way you did when you’d see Dad dive in the pool or when you’d chase the shadows of the evening sun.
The slightest taste of your purity will do.
Is that possible?
Is it wrong to ask more of you?
I mean, you must realize you owe me that, right? After all, you did spill death over a perfectly good towel….
Do we have a deal?
Please?—
Okay, okay, I’ll let you rest just…just don’t be a stranger, okay?
*
Bye-bye, my sweet Bowsy boy.
Love,
Your forever-pal Will
ah this was heartbreaking. thanks for sharing will
My ducts are aching. Beautiful outro.