There are a couple recorded versions of this on the page...

Thank you to Cassandra Tribe (yet again) for all her help and guidance with this piece  :)


(We Are) More Than This

Too many poems start with a definition
We all know what the fuck malpractice is
No matter the truth of the situation though
I can’t go into details due to ‘pending litigation’
Because we all know that the truth
ain’t the truth until a f’k’n judge says so

This is what we’ve become

The ghosts of our ancestors do not approve,
We have nothing to be proud of.
No reason to separate a shoulder patting ourselves on the back
As our egos marvel blindly at our ingenious catastrophe
The glory of each sunrise, each birth becomes a miracle squandered
Lost in the pursuit of a richer payday, a faster ride,
a better piece of ass,
a friendlier reality

We are more than this

Scrambling to climb ladders of success
We ignore the ladder of evolution because it’s too tall
The climb too difficult for these legs already tired
from the effort of our performance in this darkness
holding our faces up to it as if it were the warm glow of heaven
choking on the ignorance we shove down our throats
as if it could sustain us

We are more than this

Despite what we were led to believe
We are not merely drunken nights spaced out
by work’s immeasurable appetite for chain-gang repetition
Breaking our souls instead of rocks
(We are) not merely a stranger’s steamy groin and groping hands in the dark
Reaching for a salvation that will never come in this way
Please do not try to sell your rationalizations
and justifications to this simple soul,
I cannot lie to you and tell you it is ok

because we are more than this

Despite the best efforts of tyrants and zealots
We are not jailed journalists, propaganda or lost souls
Those seeking earthly power are blind to what it really is,
Too busy shouting their greatness
from mountaintops of their own creation,
incapable of listening
We are not ‘ethnic cleansing’ or machetes bloodied in the name of any god
(We are) not burning crosses and white robes
or the flesh of Stella Byrd’s boy James being scraped away,
his screams echoing in a forest of swinging bodies
Noose to noose
Shackle to shackle
Amen

We are more than this

Despite what it says on the asses of sweatpants
We are not sluts, baby mamas, bitches or ho’s
Mothers are the embodiment of love
We are not merely gold teeth, tinted windows or bling
Lost in the pursuit of fallacy
Cruising streets drenched in the blood of children
and calling it territory
We are not the puppets of puppets of puppets
Perpetuating our own demise
(We are) not pawns, experiment subjects or ‘collateral damage’
We are not ‘negative outcomes’ or ‘economic downturns’
It is not for you that our bodies bleed
It is not for you that our warriors die
They die for us
For the promise that we will let go of these shackles, that

we will be more than this

Because our truth can never be silenced or ignored
Our hope cannot be reasoned away or dismissed
It does not come from within ourselves
It comes from our children
And they are
More than this,
They are so much more than this

I am incapable of pretending that they are not



© 2009 Michael Egidio Quigg

OK, so I made some changes and I think I'm pretty much done. I went back to the original ending, the 'goodbye' thing seemed like a cop-out, too easy. (I'm including the second part to this series too just because) Thank you for the previous suggestions and I'll still take any if you have them. I recorded this version and will be uploading it later...


[re-write-take 2]
FUNERAL CLOTHES - Day 1 - The Wake (Part 1)

When taking funeral clothes out of the closet,
everything slows down
Hands drift towards door handles,
hairs on your arm swaying in slow motion
A bad scene in some horrible art movie
Handles are white-knuckle gripped even though none of this is their fault
The rollers drunkenly play their notes as the door slowly accordions open
eyes moving to the spot before the squeaky symphony is over
the sudden burst of buzzing fluorescent brightness
merely illuminating what you already knew every detail of in the dark
Hangers are clutched gently and carefully lifted
The grief of past funerals trapped in the fabric,
its weight tightens your shoulder as it glides towards you
The rustling, veil-thin recession-grade plastic
you were once so careful to keep intact is torn away
the sound a rising scream bringing you back to reality as-
THEPASTYEARHASBEENBRUTALIDON’TKNOWHOWMUCHMORETHISFAMILYCANTAKE
-time starts to catch up while you get dressed.
Awkwardly putting on your father’s skin,
you will mutter the phrase,
“How much weight have I put ON??”
at least twice
First when your already snug shirt puckers 3 small kisses to you
again when you try to button those once perfectly fitting pants
These are your only moments of levity

Finally dressed, you make your way downstairs
Each step echoes in the memories of others gone
A roll call of wasted potential, hard living, twists of fate and
What??
WHO??
how?
The ride to the funeral home is uneventful, quiet
Radio low, little talking
More just
remembering

The narrow city sidewalk in front of O’Brien’s
is packed with smokers out simply because-
THEPASTYEARHASBEENBRUTALIDON’TKNOWHOWMUCHMOREWECANTAKE
-death is inside and that makes us uncomfortable
No one cares to point out the irony
Familiar shapes become familiar faces
Handshakes, hugs, awkward jokes followed by
even more awkward, almost painful laughter
Just a way to keep from crying
Knowing glances of a silent conversation,
“Here again, I can’t believe it.”
Especially this time
No illness, no issues,
Just
Gone

You turn and face ‘the stairs’,
dread rising in your heart with each heavy-legged step.
They take an eternity
The doorway feels like a barrier between reality and nightmare
except you’re entering a place that is both more than anywhere else
Although this one usually has someone manning the door,
at least at the beginning.
It’s kind of nice.
Avoiding eyes, you sign the guest book and wonder
what will be around the corner,
what will be in your dreams tonight.
Usually you can’t believe it’s them,
what’s there is really the empty shell of some poor stranger
and you’ve simply come to the wrong place.
One day though, you realize
That’s the ‘best case scenario’
While the worst,
the absolute worst,
is that it will be the person you loved,
that you will turn the corner,
see the casket
and they will look exactly the same.


© 2009 Michael Egidio Quigg



Part 2

She stood motionless, in shock.
Not only because of what was before her
but because of the fact that she was there yet again.
The flowers are lined up against the wall on the right, cards out-
People seem to want to make sure you know
that in your hour of need, they were thinking of you;
if only so you will do the same one day.
On the left... on the left are the faces.
Grief’s beautifully pristine distortions that are all…
off somehow… not quite there…
just staring... into yesterday


© 2009 Michael Egidio Quigg

A few of you may remember the previous version of this from a few months ago. I was going to put the original version here too but I'd have to type it out and I just don't feel like it right now  haha
Feel free to mention any suggestions you can think of, I'd appreciate it.

[re-write]
FUNERAL CLOTHES - Day 1 - The Wake (Part 1)

When taking funeral clothes out of the closet
everything slows down
Hands drift towards door handles,
the hairs on your arm swaying in slow motion
like a bad scene in some bad art movie.
Handles are white-knuckle gripped even though none of this is their fault
The rollers drunkenly play their notes as the door slowly accordions open
Your eyes moving to the spot before the squeaky symphony is over,
the sudden burst of buzzing fluorescent brightness
merely illuminates what you already knew every detail of in the dark
Hangers are clutched gently and carefully lifted
The grief of past funerals trapped in the fabric,
its weight tightens your shoulder as it glides towards you
The rustling, veil-thin recession-grade plastic
you were once so careful to keep intact is torn away
the sound a rising scream bringing you back to reality as-
THEPASTYEARHASBEENBRUTALIDON’TKNOWHOWMUCHMORETHISFAMILYCANTAKE
-time starts to catch up while you get dressed.
Awkwardly putting on your father’s skin,
you will mutter the phrase,
“How much weight have I put on??”
at least twice
Once when your already snug shirt puckers 3 small kisses to you
and again when you try to button those once perfectly fitting pants
These are your only moments of levity

Finally dressed, you make your way downstairs
Each step echoes in the memories of others gone
A roll call of wasted potential, hard living, twists of fate and
What??
WHO??
how?
The ride to the funeral home is uneventful, quiet
The radio is low, there’s little talking
Mostly just
remembering

The narrow city sidewalk in front of O’Brien’s Funeral Home in Southie
is packed with smokers out simply because-
THEPASTYEARHASBEENBRUTALIDON’TKNOWHOWMUCHMOREWECANTAKE
-death is inside and that makes us uncomfortable
No one cares to point out the irony
Familiar shapes become familiar faces
Handshakes, hugs, awkward jokes followed by
even more awkward, almost painful laughter
that’s really just a way to keep from crying
Knowing glances of a silent conversation,
“Here again, can you believe it?”
“No.”
Especially this time
No illness, no issues,
Just
Gone

You turn and face the local legend known as, ‘the stairs’,
dread rising in your heart with the first heavy-legged step
They take an eternity
The doorway feels like a barrier between reality and nightmare
except you’re entering a place that is both of these things more than anywhere else
This one usually has someone manning the door, at least at the beginning.
It’s kind of nice.
Avoiding eyes, you sign the guest book and wonder
what will be around the corner,
what will be in your dreams tonight.
Usually you can’t believe it’s them,
what’s there is really the empty shell of some poor stranger
and you’ve come to the wrong place.

One day though, you may realize that this
is what they call the ‘best case scenario’
and that the ‘worst case scenario’,
the absolute worst,
is that you will turn the corner,
see the casket,
and they will look exactly the same.
That they will be the same person that you loved,
that held your hand when you needed it,
the same person to whom you did not get to say,

“Goodbye.”


© 2009 Michael Egidio Quigg