in the hammering of caskets.
—Jack Spicer
“Oh, Goddess of San Francisco,” I begin,
and then I pause just a bit to wonder who
that might be (I have some ideas). I say
pay a lot of lip service to the recently de-
parted; actually, I would intervene here to
supercede the recently deceased with
the cumulative dead, in general. I say
pay a lot of lip service to the success-
fully superceded intervention. Humans
shouldn’t have expiration dates, either,
being people and all. Do I hear no ap-
plause from the goddesses’ gods? They
(we) should come and go as we please. Well, it
must be relayed, as of course we all know, that
they (we) do. Have expiration dates. Which
(and here the audience lauds thunder-
ously) “ARE A BIT TO THE RIGHT
AND DOWN A TIDGE FROM THE BOT-
TOM OF THE BARCODE (THEIR B...s,
OUR B....s). At any random moment
there are always a few gods on teevee,
watching over us for a few seasons.
We know which because they are
usually the ones that are uncharac-
teristically mild (nothing but a bow-
ling ball in tornado alley, that one
tsunami in the little fish pond in the
pasture, the heatwave that hits the
beehive...and only the beehive, etc.).
They each (these gods) take an extra
long spring break that often lasts through
at least the summer, if not infinity. At
least this used to be the case. Omni-
potence has its own downsides (it
is here that I become hungry and
think instead its own drumsticks;
it being omnipotence and all). I.e.,
try attempting to visit this life in an
unusually concealed godlike manner.
This trick makes any concealer’s eye-
wear much less blatant (just ask the
eyewear, the most vaudevillian
of the accoutrements). And speak-
ing of pizzazz, I’m a HUGE fan!
What I do is split it into 10ths (no
matter the original size, although it
turns out to most often be personal),
give or take, and split the glorious gore
with my pals down the sidewalk. My
sidewalk pals occasionally sleep in con-
cerned tents. But lately there’s been a
lot of tentlessness down the sidewalk. Oh,
and there’s also the pizza problem,
and the various skirmishes that ensue.
I’ve seen some doozies, let me tell
you! And, lest any of you forget,
I am telling you. Or am I? Anyway, a-
mongst my pals down the sidewalk, there is
of course Hammock Man, who always gets the fir
(or maybe it is a furry cedar, or, as we call it,
“That Christmas Tree Most Prickly and
Most Dense!”) all to himself, and there’s
the one or two who get the fire for the night
(varying pals, each of whom, on their fire night,
we call “The Nesters”), there’s those who pre-
fer to get caught quickest by the rising sun
(and we call this rather elite crew “Morning
People”). Hammock Man has it best.
He’s always hidden from reality during each
segue between a pair of days (at least those with
some semblance of sunlight throughout, I should
clarify). Hammock Man loves it up there. He calls
his gigantic cedar or fir tree “Christmas.” Houdini,
he most definitely is not, as the falls from such
heights have been the catalyst for at
least three broken toes (never adjusted),
his right leg popping right out of his pelvis (we,
neither of us, yet know the technical term for this,
but it has got to be the most painful thing I have ever
personally witnessed anyone endure, for sure). And
there was one fall after which an urgent surgery en-
sued (something about a few of the tree’s needles stuck
clean through his spine, which makes his cedar seem
more of a pine, if you ask me). Ever since that
particular incident, Ol’ Hammock’s been severely
in love with the word coccyx; so much so that the
tentants and the tentless have become a little bit
annoyed by the man whose every day is Christmas.
This same crew, nevertheless, manage the appear-
ance (at least) of a genuine laugh every single time
Hammock utters the word coccyx. “Coccyx [laughter]!”
I presume you get the picture. But Hammock Man, at least
by our calculations, has never even emitted as much as
a chuckle (when it comes to laughter and its kin, that is).
And you can be fairly assured that he has led quite the
extensive existence, too. But he does have those lovely
and perpetual rose-red cheeks, which always convey
a kind of laughter. They also, I’d say, convey em-
barrassment, shyness, and just maybe a bit of a
crush in the near vicinity (or perhaps perpetually some-
where in his meaty head). Or Christmas, I suppose.
And what is Christmas but a reminder of Easter.
Which is but a reminder (for me, at least) of the
oft-performed ritual amongst my pals down the
sidewalk which some call “The Coffin Tent,” some
“The Old Tentament,” and others, simply, “Oh,
Body Bag!” And this group will often sing it as
a song to the tune of O Tannenbaum (replacing the
title of the song with their phrase for the ritual).
Sure, it’s a ritual that verges on the grotesque,
perhaps, given the morbidity and all, but what’s
death but a natural event we each get to experience
in one way or the other (be that the experience to
end all experiences is grotesque and beautiful—that
precious beauty that is in the eye of the beholder;
that beauty that can turn the grotesque into, well,
beauty itself, or be it anywhere in between)—so I say
why not celebrate in some way or another, no matter
how often the occasion; I’ve rarely ever had the notion
to look for any excuse for a bit of a celebration, after all,
no matter how it might be partaken. Plus, a coffin
made of tent is so less problematic than the
hollowed out trunk of a tree. especially as
there’s not a single nail or hammer to worry about.
And, think about it: the “life” of the party, so
to speak, in certain inclement weather (that which
is particularly wet) is easily slid by the pallbearing
facsimile (or two) with a fair bit of ease, all the
way down to the bay (which isn’t as far away
as one would likely imagine), and even when it’s
a dry day, it’s not such a struggle to drag down
the sidewalk, or the avenue, depending on the
time of death, given rush hour and all (or, rather,
given the time of the discovery of the corpse, I
interventionally supersede, caught up in my own
little moment, as it were...)—although on
these days the comfy casket will likely encounter a
snag or two, inevitably gathering a few fairly gaping
holes on its sleep-bottom; but no one seems to mind,
or even notice much. Once at the bay we each
do our thing (we are a diverse crew, for certain,
so there is quite an assortment of things that
might be done at the tail end of this path that be-
comes the besotted burial of the tented carcass).
But soon after arrival at the bay’s edge, the
tented body gets clumsily tossed into the metallic-
colored waters of the bay and then it half-floats away,
often in the direction, as it turns out, of that spot
directly behind “The Tentament,” as we call it.
Or that’s what Herman always calls it, anyway.
by our calculations, has never even emitted as much as
a chuckle (when it comes to laughter and its kin, that is).
And you can be fairly assured that he has led quite the
extensive existence, too. But he does have those lovely
and perpetual rose-red cheeks, which always convey
a kind of laughter. They also, I’d say, convey em-
barrassment, shyness, and just maybe a bit of a
crush in the near vicinity (or perhaps perpetually some-
where in his meaty head). Or Christmas, I suppose.
And what is Christmas but a reminder of Easter.
Which is but a reminder (for me, at least) of the
oft-performed ritual amongst my pals down the
sidewalk which some call “The Coffin Tent,” some
“The Old Tentament,” and others, simply, “Oh,
Body Bag!” And this group will often sing it as
a song to the tune of O Tannenbaum (replacing the
title of the song with their phrase for the ritual).
Sure, it’s a ritual that verges on the grotesque,
perhaps, given the morbidity and all, but what’s
death but a natural event we each get to experience
in one way or the other (be that the experience to
end all experiences is grotesque and beautiful—that
precious beauty that is in the eye of the beholder;
that beauty that can turn the grotesque into, well,
beauty itself, or be it anywhere in between)—so I say
why not celebrate in some way or another, no matter
how often the occasion; I’ve rarely ever had the notion
to look for any excuse for a bit of a celebration, after all,
no matter how it might be partaken. Plus, a coffin
made of tent is so less problematic than the
hollowed out trunk of a tree. especially as
there’s not a single nail or hammer to worry about.
And, think about it: the “life” of the party, so
to speak, in certain inclement weather (that which
is particularly wet) is easily slid by the pallbearing
facsimile (or two) with a fair bit of ease, all the
way down to the bay (which isn’t as far away
as one would likely imagine), and even when it’s
a dry day, it’s not such a struggle to drag down
the sidewalk, or the avenue, depending on the
time of death, given rush hour and all (or, rather,
given the time of the discovery of the corpse, I
interventionally supersede, caught up in my own
little moment, as it were...)—although on
these days the comfy casket will likely encounter a
snag or two, inevitably gathering a few fairly gaping
holes on its sleep-bottom; but no one seems to mind,
or even notice much. Once at the bay we each
do our thing (we are a diverse crew, for certain,
so there is quite an assortment of things that
might be done at the tail end of this path that be-
comes the besotted burial of the tented carcass).
But soon after arrival at the bay’s edge, the
tented body gets clumsily tossed into the metallic-
colored waters of the bay and then it half-floats away,
often in the direction, as it turns out, of that spot
directly behind “The Tentament,” as we call it.
Or that’s what Herman always calls it, anyway.
