Haunted
The Ghost Of Dead Skip descends upon Black Hockey Jesus from nowhere like weather or mood or reverie; he’s like that.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Ghost Of Dead Skip. How are you? It’s been awhile. How’s death been treating you?
GHOST OF DEAD SKIP: How you think? Fucking rocks. There’s no stress or pain or bills to pay. You know how when you’re kicked back and chilling all day on a Sunday with nothing to do. Being dead’s like that but only ALL THE TIME. I’m talking infinity here. You can’t even begin to comprehend from within the limits of your paltry finitude, dude.
BHJ: I’m not buying what you’re selling, Ghost Of Dead Skip. You don’t even get to be, for fuck’s sake. You’re not even a thing. You don’t get to eat candy, tremble before art, or bang chicks. Checkmate, Ghost Of Dead Skip. No pussy for the dead.
GODS: Deluded, man. You know not of what you speak. All that groping and banging around you do with that yucky flesh, just for a few pathetic seconds of eternity. That’s where I dwell, brother. Orgasm’s just you peeking through the keyhole on the door to my house.
BHJ: Oh bullshit. There’s no way death is just one big come shot and, even if it is, you’ve got no hands with which to clutch a woman’s waist or a nose to smell her hair.
GODS: What’s with all this waist and hair shit? You sound like a fag.
BHJ: Hold up. Hold up. Foul, Ghost Of Dead Skip. You can’t say “fag” on my blog. It’s totally uncool.
GODS: You can’t say “fag”? That’s retarded.
BHJ: Dude. Dude. Dude. You can’t say “retarded” either.
GODS: I’m dead, Black Hockey Jesus. I can say whatever the fuck I want. Hell. If I feel like it, I can even say—
BHJ: DO NOT. Ghost Of Dead Skip, I implore you. Do not press your point by saying what you’re about to say.
GODS: Okay. Fine. I’m cool.
BHJ: Thank you.
GODS: Nigger.
BHJ: Oh for fuck’s sake. Goodbye half my readership. Thank you, Ghost Of Dead Skip. Point taken. The dead can do whatever they want. The dead have no constraints. Thank you so much for using my blog as an arena to exhibit death’s complete and utter lawlessness. We’re all super fucking impressed.
GODS: What are you so pissy about, man? Black Hockey Jesus. When’d you get so uptight? I’m the one who said it. Not you.
BHJ: But they don’t see it that way. The readers. They think you’re some extension of me—something I’m making up—and that I’m just fucking around. They don’t understand that you’re a spontaneous autonomous presence who just appears to me and says crazy shit.
GODS: Whoa whoa whoa. I need a second here. Wait. Are you telling me? Wait. Hold on. Are you seriously trying to tell me that you give a fuck about this bullshit, Mr. 14th Best Daddy Blogger according to Babble?
BHJ: Fuck you.
GODS: No, seriously. Tell me. I want to know, Mr. 14th Best Daddy Blogger according to Babble. Because I could take my nasty mouth elsewhere and maybe—just maybe—you could climb a few notches to—dare to dream, dream big—the 11th Best Daddy Blogger according to Babble.
BHJ: Man, seriously. Just fuck off.
GODS: Well what are you doing? You’re writing a god damn blog for Christ sake. I thought we were poets. I thought we contained multitudes, a flux of vicissitudes. I thought—
BHJ: I THOUGHT WE WERE ALIVE, MOTHERFUCKER. I THOUGHT THAT PERHAPS WE WOULDN’T STAB OURSELVES IN THE FEMORAL ARTERY AND DIE IN MASSIVE POOLS OF OUR OWN BLOOD LIKE SOME HIGH SCHOOL KID WHOSE GIRLFRIEND DUMPED HIM. THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT. I DIDN’T HOWEVER THINK THAT NEARLY 6 YEARS AFTER YOUR SUICIDE THAT I’D BE LISTENING TO BACH’S CELLO SUITES IN THE DARK—SOBBING AND GRIEVING YOU INTO SOME KIND OF FANTASTIC PSYCHIC EXISTENCE THAT MAKES ME QUESTION MY OWN SANITY.
GODS: Your imagination is real, Jon.
BHJ: Don’t call me Jon, dick.
GODS: Alive or dead, we’re both still metaphors for a transpersonal mythical friendship.
BHJ: Get the fuck off my blog.
GODS: I miss you, buddy.
BHJ: Get the fuck off my blog.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Reader Comments (21)
Fucking brilliant. And, I feel for you. But. . . fucking brilliant.
Thanks.
14th best Daddy blogger? Really?
I never thought of you as a daddy-blogger. More of a poet, I'd say.
Love never dies. It just goes underground.
Dead people can be such inconsiderate assholes.
Well. It was a good conversation. xx
My dead friend doesn't talk like your dead friend, but she makes me question my sanity. Powerful post.
Amazing damn post. Within 10 seconds I both laughed and cried - you are a poet.
Daddy Blogger...heh...
Big fan of Bach. And also the dead. They both have things to teach in their own ways.
Congrats on your ranking. But I gotta say, in mastery of prose and imagery, you are definitely number one...
I live in a similar place, 19 years later. Sometimes I feel imprisoned by it. I mean really? Half my life, talking to a dead person?
I'm glad the gods don't talk to me. They probably hit harder than my dad did for talking back.
I've missed GODS. I miss my dead friend too. Great post.
sonofabitch
I think you're part douchebag and part roman candle. Goddamn, write on.
Wow. You knocked me on my ass.
... it is worth repeating...fucking...brilliant...
Elizabeth is a genius.
The only thing as perfect as this post is Sundry's comment.
Bravo.
Fuck yes.
I like visits and conversations with GODS:
" That’s where I dwell, brother. Orgasm’s just you peeking through the keyhole on the door to my house."
Does GODS *have* to rub our noses in it? Definitely in a contrarian mood