Remind Me When I Die

There were two knocks, and then a third—
But never did his attention stir.
His eyes were vacant of any movement
Yet absorbed in a world outside his own.
He slouched, far from thought—
Almost comatose. He needn’t supply
The images of the world, for they flashed before him
In a whirl composed of calamity.
It was as if the generations of past
Spoke for his own—but here he sat,
Not entirely alone.
You see, the anchors supplied the answer
To the questions he couldn’t ask back.
They were the deciding force of his opinion, and he seemed
Just fine with that.

He later watched people march down
Documentary Ave, for a noble cause—
But if he were to look around he’d only have
The closing empty walls. The sun still rose
From low in this particular portion of the sky,
But he’d never have known
Because he hadn’t yet stepped outside.
That’s without saying he certainly knew the time.
The red numbers were there then gone
In the peripheral sight of his left eye.
He hadn’t yet blinked, let alone bat a lid
Because to think of the list of all things he’s done, well—
Would shatter his whole existence. Force him to recreate.
So he sat still, weary of the time that’d take.

The air conditioning kicked on,
And the wind began to blow into the cubic space
That held within it his aging face.
Was it his will—that felt so damned comfortable
So that even a toe was too much to tow—
Let alone the weight of the world which was but a loan?
He lifted his finger, and it fell with force.
The only thing that changed was the false source
Of light.

He sat there and watched half a million
Gather for a festival of freedom on a plain—
Forty years past, here he sat thinking
It’d never happen again. No, not like the last.
He was there to reinforce this in
In bitter contempt, and of those responsible
He felt himself exempt.
A little bit of saliva trickled down
To the dimple on the tip of his chin
As he wished for something new, but knew not
Where to begin. Pixels blasted
Through to the back of his cerebellum.
He scratched and scratched
but the presence, tickling, persisted.

Was it an insistence to better his existence?

Was it a calling from the distance—
Of some suppressed memory
Of a moment he had lived in?

He couldn’t quite get it,
So the channel, thus the thought
Is what’s shifted.
A new program, a new voice calls out—
To dictate to the choice
Of his attention span.

Was he still a man? Or had he given away
His physical frame, and in exchange,
Received metal wrapped
In cheap plastic, held together with
Weak washers and stripped bolts?
Was he apart of this new reality
That daily he embraced?
Was he just a viewer in another space?
Or a puppet that’s placed
By the currents traced back to a wireless source
With an ever changing face?
His state remained the same,
And he met the situation with a yawn,
He wouldn’t dare complain.

It was nearly six
When the shades of blue
Darkened in hue and a light gold
Shot through his blinds.
There he was, at the beginning
Of his end. He created for himself
A single destination which he had already met.
A leather coffin, he could call his own.
Yet he’d never see it this way,
So long as he lived in this comforting state.

Yet, if life is indeed like a river,
He was like a rock,
Sheltered from the currents—
Laid to rest at the bottom of the sediment.
He had gotten tired of swimming
Thus couldn’t carry his own weight,
So further he sunk into his impending fate.

With this he lost all faith—held no
Convictions. How could he
When he was not only a witness,
But prime example of his generation’s
Definition.

All was nothing, nothing we’d ever grasp—
But if nothing was the world
Time would pass, and we wouldn’t even reach,
Or even make the effort. Then, the blessed turns to burden
And we forever ignore the rape,
To pillage this earth we’ve acceptingly claimed
As our way of life which we don’t intend to change.
So there he sat,
With a lucid gaze, awaiting the coming hour
For which he already paid
to view a fight.

As the lights dimmed
From the window of the box before him,
His heart raced as the fighters stepped
From the smoking doors.
A flicker from the crowd
To capture the moment,
And the fighters approached the stage
Where the bloody melee would unfold.

Just as the fighters reached for the ropes,
There was a knockin’ just as before.
He had enough, finally he stood
To defend his recording program.
As they say, he had nothing to lose.
First the blinds are what he pushed aside,
And parked outside was a hearse with
Its lights spotting him blind.

He opened the door
And there stood a man,
Tuxedo, bow tie and black rose in hand.
A grin stretched somewhere
between the deep wrinkles that bent the same,
and a bow met our hero
as he opened  his mouth to say,

“What do you want?”

The suited man nodded and turned just slightly,
Lifting his hand to the hearse and answered politely,
“My name is Death,
I’ve been your neighbor all along.
I don’t suppose you knew,
We practically share the same home.”

The pale man then stepped forward into the room,
Our hero had no choice,
His feet swept away like a sorcerer’s broom.

“What were you watching?”
The neighbor Death had asked. “I hope
I didn’t disturb the time you hold precious.”

“No,” was the only word our hero could blurt.

Death, in his tuxedo and his sunken cheeks,
Sat on the couch and patted
the neighboring seat.
“Why don’t I take you for a lift,
We’ll be good friends. Just sit beside me,
And let the ride home begin again.”

THEQUIKEFIX.COM