Dead Stars
Voices of the dead, speak( to me) first, in silent whispers, then, I turn up the volume on the audio, and I can hear loud and clear-beckons from the beyond. Wails, that clutter the Universe— sounds like cats in heat competing for a mate. It ' s a miracle any of the dead are ever heard again. Lost in space, like moon-heroes Buzz and Neil, who no longer dream of getting dust on the welcome mat of the World. They ' ve all traversed the stars, now know what it feels like to be nothing but a memory. I strain to listen to the tip-toe through the tulips— theme music for the masses. Dead poets couldn ' t write a bitter-better eulogy, or count all the years spent pondering death. And too soon, far too soon, this too, will happen to you. But I don ' t have syphilis or cancer or clots on the brain. My heart still beats to the rhythm of boys and girls( as it always has). The Prince of Pop music now knows death, like Zsa-Zsa, is famous for being famous. It takes no special talent, just being in the right place with the wrong man will do nicely, thank you. Perhaps all these voices of the dead carry the same tune, like static on the radio, daring me to find some other station I ' d rather listen to. Someday soon ' something else ' will be more intriguing than news-flashes of new obits shocking us into submission. And this, then, will surely be a force to be reckoned with.
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