Archive
09/03/10
Eternal Earthly Enigma
If only we could take all the existential anxiety out of dying, That uneasy, queasy-in-the-pit-of-your-gut feeling of not knowing, Wondering just what it is that insatiably sadistic fate has up its sleeve, What that sinister ancient illusionist Mr. Presto-Change-o Know-It-All Will pull out of his drop-dead-amazing false-top-and-bottom silk hat,
Whether it'll be a rabbit or hare or boiling-stewpot hasenpfeffer, Whether it'll be white or black or bloody crimson, Whether it'll be a mix of skunk and zebra or albino-crow road kill, Whether it'll emit a hint of musky Coco Chanel vaginal aphrodisiac Or the rank eructations of a rotting pope in his casket
(Oh, you know, like that nasty Nazi sympathizer Eugenio Pacelli, Better known as Pope Pius the Twelfth Apostolic Anti-Semite, Whose silenzio on the Jewish Question and Answer Metastasized into cackling and caterwauling so raucous, They shattered the ceiling plaster of the Vatican's Sistine Bathroom).
You surely know to what I'm alluding, gentle kindred doomed spirit, My predisposition, my leaning, as it pertains to mortis inscrutibus. What a God- or Satan-send it would be if we could just know, at birth, How it will all turn out, in the end of days, the beginning of always — The riddle that stumps us more than why our shit isn't fragrant —
What choice of poison the Persona Non Grata in Chief will use To do us in, unravel our tatterdemalion or dressed-to-the-nine-lives lives, That and the when — the last breath of our fifteen minutes of briefness. It would be quite handy, indeed, having the ETA of our DOA, Just so we might tidy up our long- and short-range plans for eternity,
Arrange to tie up all our not-so-tight and decidedly loose ends, Make as certain as uncertainty can certify That we don't slight any of our family, close friends and enemies, When it comes to undertaking our final undertaking, Deciding who gets what stuff, detritus, dust we'll leave in our dust.
As we progress our technological mission toward digital omniscience, Maybe we'll discover a cure for terminal not-knowing. Imagine how reassuring it would be, hearing, on having our rears slapped, That we'll die by cancer, car crash, IED, manta-ray barb, broken heart, On Christmas Eve, Yom Kippur sundown, the last day of Ramadan.
09/03/10
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