Via some prophecy, my son has
reached one half my chronological
age. And there are so many things
he can tell me: when The Macho Man
first claimed the heavyweight belt,
the year I bought him his first dog.
All of these facts and figures, like
millions of useless gigabytes stored
in the fucked up cortex where his
memories live. And I was to believe
that memory was the foundation
for intelligence; the more things you
remember, the wiser you will become.
But these flawless recollections will
not pay his bills, will not renew his
auto insurance. When I am gone,
neither his friends, his god, nor his
imaginary sweetheart will balance
his checkbook, will balance his
blood sugar, will buy him cheap
cigarettes to smoke on the porch
and throw the butts in the aluminum
bucket. When I am gone, when the
mail slides off the coffee table, I have
little doubt that, somewhere, written
in a childlike scribbling, he will note
the exact date and time of my demise.
