"Assume All of This Is Posthumous (Five Short Ones)" by Alec Berry
If you haven't seen my physical appearance in like three years, or if we haven't stood in the same room in like three years, please just think of me as dead. It doesn't have to be sad. Just be like, 'oh, yeah, that guy's dead.'
Assume all of this is posthumous. If you see me again somewhere, just order a drink, have a private smile / feel disgust / think of someone related and walk the other way. It'll be fine.
me & all those sad Social D fans
walking up the street, picking our pockets, on the way to tattoo your girl's name somewhere new.
we won't cook her dinner. don't have time.
gotta hear Highway 101 again,
gotta wear this thing in front of you all.
We'll look like you imagine.
drove up there last night in an el camino, and when we parked it on some side street the neighbor lady caught a look and wanted to know the make and model.
“no, baby, be more specific.”
That last party I threw, I walked out there hurting.
And I just looked and looked and looked at all the everything throughout the kitchen and the living room and the balcony. The couch stood in the wall; the empties looked like monuments. The chairs held small spills.
Slater’s big body stretched out stomach to the floor, and one of those paper crowns from the Dollar Tree marked his head. I couldn’t remember if he had plans. I wanted to wake him - in case. But first I tossed an empty into a bag. Left all the others alone. Figured the heat would gather and the smell inside those cans would pop together and pull him to his feet. Like - here comes The Liquor King. Proud and Mighty. He wouldn’t hurt. He’d stand there and survey what’s his and say something declarative.
And out there by the lake, where that doctor lives, I’d mow away in sweat and bees and clippings, and I’d pick up the frequency. It’d come in clear.
i really hope everyone finally gets what they want someday, even if that's a long time from now, and even if they’re lousy.