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Someone famous dies. Norman Mailer this time.
How long ago was it that I read The Naked And The Dead?
His name's in headlines. On the front page, no less.
Hasn't been so newsworthy since he stabbed his wife.
Soon he'll be as buried in his earth as his book reviews were
in newspapers.
But, for now, the tabloids can't get enough photographs
of the angry young man, the angry middle aged husband,
the angry old fart.
Are any of his books in print? It doesn't say.
But there was the time he stabbed his wife.
Who's next to go? Actors, actresses?
No problem. Their lives are lit by scandal.
Politicians? The dirty deeds print themselves.
But not every dead author can be a dead Norman Mailer.
Most just hung out by themselves and wrote.
Few have the knives. Few have the raging anger.
Few have the wives to take it out on.
Looks like we'll be stuck with reading their books after they go.
Who'll run that story?
Explosions on London transit, forty dead.
murdered by the usual suspects.
Family of missing loved ones tack up pictures
on poles.
If you see her, call this number.
The press are there
digging up human interest stories
from the bowels of subways.
The politician declares
"We will not bow to terrorists."
An expert on the Middle East
talks plainly into the camera.
"Some hate us for what we are," he says.
"Others hate us for what they are."
That should hold us for a while.
A day or two later
and people go about their business,
though I'm sure, with one ear cocked
for the next explosion.
The story blows up, bums, simmers, smokes,
then fades to ash.
Then a celebrity trial ramps up the news.
A Hollywood type giggles on Larry King,
"Some celebrities hate us for what we are.
Other celebrities hate us for what they are."
He's found not guilty.
In a hundred million homes,
the verdict goes off like a bomb.
OK fire-truck, park in front of the church
If you must, flashing your crazy lights.
I just have to be somewhere though that's
no concern of yours.
You're here to put the blazes out
even when there aren't any.
For when did a church ever catch fire,
unless of course a spark from burning bush
leaped to wooden crucifix.
But even then, the baptismal font
would douse the flames.
Out roll the firemen,
deep blue coats and shiny helmets,
and the priest comes out the door to greet them,
sorrow in his face
right where humility's supposed to dwell.
It's a false alarm.
God, I hope religion's not a false alarm.
When it's my turn to die, I plan to ride the fire-tuck,
not this lump of crap I drive.
All bells ringing, all lights spinning and shining...
but don't tell me St Peter pushed the alarm bell by mistake.
Don't need firemen here. Check with the devil.
I slowly crawl around the fire-truck.
Admire the color though, red as hell.
And soon the church is in my rear-view mirror.
My metaphors are free to be other than religious.
Saw kids playing soccer in the church-yard once.
Had to hold myself back from booting one for Jesus.
And there was that Church fair
where I bought some incredibly tasteless fudge...
still, eating it was small sacrifice if
that was what salvation wanted.
Another fire-truck races by me,
but to a tenement this time.
Now I know tenements are fire-traps,
combustible, fires in waiting.
That's why people live in them,
don't pray in them.
John says, "My latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag. I have been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal."