My Sport

My father, and my mother, too

have gone the way of others who
no longer walk the earth. They spun

my spinning top of destiny at birth.

They set up all the rest of me.

What's beyond this vast elastic Dearth

of anything that matters?, this incarnate

just-won't-do? What are our tasks

when we’re alive and after? Maybe

daddy's doubled up in laughter reading 

random passages about the past in vast

Akashic records speckled through 

etheric texts dissolved in motes

of hydrochloric acid floating

imperceptibly above Alaska. He’s not

around to ask. Is Mommy in a belfry 

making existentially elucidating fudge,

so dense it will not budge?

Does Bob my bro still hold a grudge

against them? Is he on an ocean-liner

now regaling him with whales?

And so I fence them in with speculative

tales and stories about offhand glory.

They're flakes of nothingness, most likely,

as I'll be as well. Hell is when you break

the spell. Unless I'm wrong. Speculation's

long, and death defines long’s opposite:

there’s nothing shorter than can’t-be.

I slap my knee. My sport is

to report on it and disagree.

.