— Jorge Luis Borges
— Jorge Luis Borges
In Which I Share My Heaven
My image of God I lifted wholesale from my father,
who in retrospect, may have been drunk at the time.
Upon explaining the great visible galaxy
of which we are only the hand,
people tend to say
– like Mufasa.
And I say – No.
But yes, like Mufasa
and a little bit Sylvia Brown,
who is a crazy person that wrote a book about the afterlife.
My grandmother must have stacked it in with the murder mysteries.
Her whole sewing room is a stack of murder mysteries I used to read.
in heaven we are all 30 years old.
We can walk into each other,
joining perfectly for a moment,
like a flipbook
drawn on tracing paper,
every movement and mistake
visible from the very beginning.
I think when I read this at 13, it sounded like a disappointing version of sex.
And later when I shared my heaven with you,
you were jealous of the other souls,
the idea that we could all be soul mates.
when you kill yourself, you don’t get to rest.
You get pulled back into a body
bound for the same life in a different city or time.
People keep calling you an angry ghost,
and it cuts me.
No. Where you are, you’re a baby,
or a flipbook or pollen or Mufasa.
Not anything half as useless as a ghost.
You might be waiting in line to put your token back in,
or maybe you’re eating carrots right out of the ground.
Maybe you’re just dead, Bubba.
But I like to think
it’s summer again,
and you’re reading in the nook of our apartment.
Except this time the bed is comfortable,
and we have a dishwasher.
I’ll walk in the door,
like I did 1,000 times,
and your face will light up
just like every time I ever walked into a room
with you in it.
Except, this time it will last.
— Maggie Hanks
"I love playing bitches. There’s a lot of bitch in every woman - a lot in every man." — Joan Crawford
It’s easier to stay out than get out.” —Mark Twain
“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.
It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
Mother, you lousy walk-on, you muddy old bitch.
I have become your good daughter, I have given you a part,
big as Mississippi. I have written you a new womb,
filled like a gas chamber. Here is your fat mouth
brimming with pills! This is no poisoned apple
movie star spell - you still are what you are:
a plotting, mirror-bitten hag who hobbles the halls
like a jilted landlady. Babbling on and on
about a ghost-skinned girl. Your angry daughter,
your bad invention.
Where did you go for so long? Why did you leave us
alone with the woodsman? Did you hear
I have five dizzy dwarves of my own? They have heard
all the stories. They know your real name:
Carol, Carol, we sing knots into your hair
and piss on your soap. We’ve built you a castle
covered in witches and if you should come, dear Mother,
to visit us, we will serenade your face
with a choir of hammers. Feed you to the river
in a dress made of stones.
- as featured in 580 Split