Michael Jackson, I Guess

He has been dead for five years
and two days

When I heard, I was out with some OCAD students at Sin & Redemption

The girl who got the text looked nervous

What is it!? I said


She had attended my lecture, “May the Force Be with Me: Redacting Jesus and Taping a Picture of MJJ over the Empty Space.”

Michael Jackson is …in the hospital, she said

What will I do? I asked the others, paying for their drinks and waving a taxi down

Who detested that I sat beside him, held his hand and sang “Ben”

I got home and wrote a piece for the Globe that was a set of instructions
about committing seppuku:

Wrap your fave shot of MJ around a tanto (I suggest his performance artwork, “The Passport Picture,”) then plunge the blade into your abdomen.

Keep your death poem brief and beautiful: “The blood is red, his favorite color./Paschal Michael, I did not help you, brother.”

If you have never learned to moonwalk your shame should be doubled, tripled for never having tried to listen to HIStory.”

I got fired.

I fell into a J- hole for years, sobbing convulsively about a video in which he takes a road trip with Brett Ratner and improvs a dance to an R. Kelly song

It’s like he was alive and I was dead is what I tell the Jackson Survivors Group

Or did

We just sort of fell apart

Someone had to remind me of the death anniversary

Grief, this sort of grief, is what DH Lawrence derided as the indulgence in emotions that do not belong to you

Possibly possibly projection

I did love someone named Jackson once

He had a pet chimp and everything:

Fuck it: I still love you, MJ

I hope no one makes you want to scream in Heaven

And that you get to do pills and makeup with Elizabeth Taylor all day


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