Fate

What’s important

by Mich

The meaning of life came to me in a slow moment of panic. I finally figured out what’s important. The only thing that really matters.

You need someone to care about. And who cares about you. You need someone to worry about, and who worries about you. You need someone to look after when they get sick, as they would look after you when you get sick. You need someone to share your life with. Just having yourself is not enough.

The people you used to care about, worry about, share your life with are gone now. They come to you in dreams, and in that surreal other world you have your life back, only to wake up in the same void of reality. It becomes hard then to get up and face the day without them, without any of them, not one.

There are bloggers out there who despise me for my pitiful — and to them, pitiable — posts about loss and loneliness. One posted a nasty poem about me “bemoaning my fate… boo hoo…” She erased it right after but not before I had read it.

She writes constantly and voluminously about her love for God, and I think what really set her off was when I lamented the continuing absence and silence of God in answer or non-answer to my prayerful entreaties for help. It’s funny how some of the nastiest comments I get are from so-called Christians, who tell me in most unchristian terms what they think of me. She pitied me in my “godless universe” and told me to drown my “sorrow in another glass of wine.”

First of all, let me set the record straight: I do not drink wine — I drink gin and rum and bourbon, so please, madam, do not add insult to injury.

Secondly, take your self-righteous sanctity and shove it.

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Alone at Cocktail Hour

by

He decides to live in her memory

This is the only option he can see.

The few people he knows get annoyed

That he lives alone in a void.

Look for someone else, he’s often told,

And do it soon before you’re too old.

Go out, find another companion,

Go together to the Grand Canyon.

Or hop on a flight to old Cancún

There’s a woman waiting under the moon.

Not the least interested, he tells them

I have a much simpler stratagem.

What, pray tell, to just sit there and brood?

Look, they add, we don’t mean to intrude

But your gloom is seriously chronic.

 

He sits alone with his gin and tonic

Down it goes and he makes another

Thinking only of his wife and lover.

On the fifth gin he begins to weaken

If he wants friends he must go and seek them.

He decides to drive to the local bar

And order a fine wine and Arctic char.

He staggers a bit when he steps outside

And starts out on his bleary-eyed ride.

It’s dark now and the road is winding

The oncoming lights blurred and blinding.

A final blinding light ends his life

In that crashing flash he sees his wife.

 

Dirty Henry and the Grim Reaper

by Mich

 LIFE IS GRIMM

I am in hell, Henry cried

when his brothers and son died.

Oh, really, says Grim, just wait —

and cuts down his last soul mate!

Who’s next, you sick piece of shit?

My own damn death, is that it?

You sorely tempt me, says Grim

raising his skeletal limb.

Smiling, Henry has to say:

Go ahead, punk, make my day!

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