Spoken Word for the Dead
When I was a kid, I watched my friend cut his sleeves off, cut - his wrists off, his skin peeling behind red amber, gold, of life - I watched him make no faces, just mask and murdered limb as he guiltily stared back at me turning the corner in his direction, but why?
I wondered what he was doing with the razor blade on a Sunday, why not Saturday or Thursday, I wondered why his arm was bleeding. I wondered if we were still shooting hoops in the afternoon, if we were still 11 with aching growing pain joints and colored skin. I wondered if it hurt. But I never asked him. He stood up and walked past me into the living room. His grandparents across the television, having just let me into their home. His parents away as always, as usual the house a silent disco with no wind or sound of foot steps, just the buzz of the television that no one was really listening to.
I told him, that I had found an ant hill in his front yard. That we should drown it with water. He said he was sorry. But I didn't know what for.
I turned 28 the other day.
The dead have no need for spoken word. They have no need to hear how we survived. We survive, because we have no need for the dead, that's why we bury them under ground, or burn them and stuff them back into ceramic containers. It's just a ritual for the living - they are just symbols of the dead. I know, because I don't hear the dead write or read spoken word. That is for the living.
That's why we choose to live.
Because the dead ... .
Written by : Domingo T.