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my death per postcard

the first postcard arrived directly following
our third largest fight.
it was about how often i wash my hands.
the fight that is.

the postcard, was about how my televised death
would be entertaining
for at-home audiences
watching it. my horrible death.
entertainment apparently.

the card featured wall street, from a well-lit low angle,
like a gilded victim.
those mean streets of revolution
where the darkest thing marching
is the bouncing eyeliner
of a hipster in headress.

it had our address too,
the card,
but no return address. no signature either. but certainly
letter stamps
used to punch out
my middle name.

my middle name, that is.

that rare thing associated with me
that few know.

my middle name being on there
is discouraging.
more so than the low average of hand washings per day.

i don't like this card.

and then another one came,
for ame.
no middle name.
that's a clue.
handwriting like delayed child.
that's a clue.
from central perk.
that's a clue?

the message asks my fiance what pre-existing gravestone
she would want to fill
if she could.
my initial answer, for her
is none

this postcard isn't nice either.

both cards choose to capitilize IF
like that.
i don't like that if.

like a real if,
it connotes a result
based on a previous action.
like my death.
on national television.
i prefer to receive no more.


Jason Neese is blowing his way to the top