Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tomb

He did not get a pyramid. He could have; pyramids are legal and obtainable, but they are a special order. The funeral director doesn’t have any in stock.

He was not buried at sea, nor in sky. He was not shrouded, dumped, eaten, shit out.

There is no tombstone. No inscription telling passersby of his deeds and affiliations. There is no grave, so teens have nowhere to take acid and fuck and pilgrims have nowhere to pilgrimage.

O, wouldn’t that site be a sight?

They cremated him. The oven is attached to multiple furnaces, as the process requires temperatures of 1,800 degrees. Time depends on body mass. What is left is not the fine powder that characters in movies always wind up throwing into each others’ faces, but a chunky, off-white pile that might be mistaken for cat litter.

Half went in the choppy sea off the coast of Marin County. The other half went in the Ganges, which is holy to Hindus. He was not Hindu.

San Francisco Bay empties into the Pacific; the Ganges into the Bay of Bengal and then past Indonesia and Australia until it, too, reaches the Pacific.

4 Comments

  1. Well said.

  2. “This reminds me of Herbie’s old place.”

  3. That’s really beautiful, man. Thank you for writing it.

  4. beautiful.

    i sure miss him.

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