The Funniest Thing About Death
is the paperwork it generates,
certificates, filings, the bureaucratic gates,
as if the universe requires documentation for the end,
the departed fills out forms they’ll never send.
is the paperwork it generates,
certificates, filings, the bureaucratic gates,
as if the universe requires documentation for the end,
the departed fills out forms they’ll never send.
The funniest thing is the things people say—
at peace, in a better place—
the way language tries to dignify the absolute
and ends up funnier than any practiced bit.
The funniest thing is the timing, always off,
the dignified rebuff of every plan you made
for what was coming down the line,
how much of it, in the end, is just luck.
My grandfather died mid-sentence in a very dull meeting,
which he would’ve found funnier than anything worth completing,
a full and decorated life of unremarkable Thursdays,
and he’d have wanted us to tell it in the eulogizing hallways.
I plan to die in the middle of a bit, still workshopped,
the punchline unrevealed, the audience mid-stop,
and whoever finds the notebook where it was recorded
will find it was worth dying for.