death and tacos

Waiting in line at a taco stand for my number to be called
I started talking to a six-year-old kid kicking his little foot against
A curb and waiting for his dad to come out of the bathroom.

And he said, “Why do you cough so much?”
And I said, “Because I have cancer.”
And he said, “Bummer.”
And I said, “Yep.”
And he said, “Does it hurt?”
And I said, “Only when I breathe.”
And he said, “Why don’t you hold your breath?”

And I puffed out my cheeks like Lois Armstrong and
Let him see it and held it for as long as I could
Before exploding into a hacking eruption of
Stupid sounds and saliva.

And he laughed.
And I coughed and laughed.
And he said, “Feel better?”
And I said, “A bit.”

And I showed him how much better with my
Thumb and index finger. And pointed at a green thread
of mucous that had dribbled out onto my chin
He said, “Gross.” And wiping it off
I said, “Yep.”

And he said, “My granddaddy had cancer before he died on the hospital.”
And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
And he said, “Yeah on the hospital.”
And I said, “Oh, yeah?”
And he said, “He used to give me candy all of the times I ever saw him.”
And I said, “Sorry kid, I don’t have any candy.”
And, deflated, he said, “Are you gonna die on the hospital?”
And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
And he said, “Yea, are you gonna die on the hospital?”
And I said, “Probably.”
And he said, “OK.”

And, upon giving that gracious consent, the boy’s dad came out and
The boy said, “Well, bye!” And I said, “See ya.”
And he ran off.
And, for a while, between the two of us,
Dying became so very ordinary, like candy or tacos or semantics,
And death itself suddenly just this obnoxious third-wheel
A pitiful nuisance with nothing better to do with his time
Than to tag along with me and this six-year-old kid.
And I sat smiling in the sun and imagining death at the moment,
A sad sack of lonely-self slumped somewhere in the distance,
As I waited for my number to come up.

- Nathaniel Whittemore

the spoon

Some days I think I need nothing
more in life than a spoon.
With a spoon I can eat oatmeal
Or take the medicine doctors prescribe
I can swat a fly sleeping on the sill
or pound the table to get attention.
I can point accusingly at God
or stab the empty air repeatedly.
Looking into the spoon’s mirror,
I can study my face in its shiny bowl,
or cover one eye to make half the world
disappear. With a spoon
I can dig a tunnel to freedom
spoonful by spoonful of dirt,
or waste life catching moonlight
and flinging it into the blackest night.
-- Richard Jones

limericks from the devil

Despite being fully finished with my demonic thesis, I still find myself drawn to the subject. Or at least, seeing connections with my thesis or making comments that still bring a slightly darker tone to the discussion. So imagine my joy when I found this delightful little website: a dictionary of limericks!!! Talk about exciting!!! And there were numerous ones on demons, devils, and various other preternatural creatures. Here's a sampling:

Said Satan: "Right here, sign in blood.

And in no time, you'll soon be a stud."

So I gave my autography,

But damn! My cacography*

Made me, instead, Elmer Fudd.

*Cacography (kuh-KAH-gruh-fee) — Bad handwriting.

Waging war against Satan aggressively,

There's no way to do it excessively.

The effort that's spent

Can't be 50 percent.

You will not beat him manic-depressively.

Azazel was evil, my child!

This demon lived out in the wild;

The Hebrews would send

Him a scapegoat, and blend

Of scapecheeses, both Tasty and Mild.

Ademonists don't believe much

In devils and demons and such.

If you say you're the type

To buy satanist hype,

They may think that you're quite out of touch.