Dedicated to the late Mexican day laborer Jaime Morales.
To my uncle not my uncle
I had to lie to the coroner
that he was my uncle
because otherwise
they wouldn’t give up his
ashes
they asked for my name
date of birth, my relation
to the deceased
my name is ________
date of birth is _______
and he was my uncle
I made it all up
picked a name
a date of birth
my mother’s name
and her birth date
at random
said I never knew
my father
the only problem with
this was that I didn’t
write it down and when
they’d ask me again
my answers would change
but you said your name was
______, your date of birth
_______, your mother’s name
_____, her date of birth ____
nope, there must’ve been
a mistake, I said, and all
was forgiven
I filled out the required
forms and they said they’d
email me when his ashes were
ready for pick up, which they
ultimately would never do
and I called them
only to find out their number
had changed, then I’d call
another number, then another
and did this for months
his ashes held hostage
by the bureaucracy of
the local government
where men and women
have grown comfortable
with grief and disdain
all I have is a box
of some of your CDs
a broken flip phone
some mail and my memories
of you in the morning sitting
at the blue wooden bench
with your coffee, donut
and a copy of la opinion
when the nursing home called
they said I was listed as the
only living relative, but you
told me you had a son and
a daughter, and an ex-wife
who hated your guts but that’s
what you wanted – to die alone
and it took me a long time to
find peace with that
that sometimes people just
want to die alone and in peace
to be only surrounded by their
own disintegrating thoughts
to battle with your faith or
lack thereof, to cry in final
acceptance to purge regret
from your slowing mind
although the bureaucrats
threw away your ashes
like incorrectly-filled out
forms or broken paper clips
I save your memories and
take them with me wherever
I go and they will be the
bullets in the gun I point
to the motherfuckers
when their time comes
____________
In loving memory to Suicidal Joe, former drummer of Amentia, founder of Skaters Versus Society AKA Suicidal Venice Skaters, and one of the realest punks in the entire San Fernando Valley. SVS C/S!
Suicidal Joe
he was a punk and a skater
with the words SUICIDAL
tattooed on his lower back
in homage to his favorite
band, Suicidal Tendencies
he was half-white and mexican
reluctantly admitting being
half-white in a mostly mexican
neighborhood
we would ditch school and just
stay in his room, getting high
and drunk, while his mother
and step-father would smoke
a carton of Marlboro Reds
on the dirty, old couch
in the living room
watching TV
we always found enough money
to black out on gin or vodka
and beer, paired with whatever
drugs we could get at that moment
often pills and acid, sometimes coke
if we had the money
his room was covered in
Insane Clown Posse and
Suicidal Tendencies posters
and ash trays, guitars, amps
and a drum set, which Joe
would play and we would
reluctantly allow him to play
in our bands that mostly
just existed in his room
One day sitting down in his room
prank-calling his then-girlfriend
saying he had been killed by a bus
while riding his skateboard
hearing her cry, us too numb
on drugs, alcohol and nihilism
to care, I had awoken 23 years later
sitting in a room in Watts
not a single beer or liquor bottle
or drugs in sight, save the psych meds
going on five years clean now
a stack of recovery books half-read
remembering how joe and his
family had to move for some reason
unable to remember why through
the dense cigarette fog of memory
but i heard that he had found god
and heroin, both which would
eventually claim him
we found each other skating
we stayed with each other because
of the secret, unspoken pain we held in
a love forged in trauma and poverty
but also because of music, even though
and I can finally confess this now
that you’re gone, but I’m sorry man
Insane Clown Posse fucking sucks
Rusty Truck 