Michael Jackson is dead.

Michael Jackson is dead.
June 25th, 2009.
This is the part where people say what they were doing when history shapes itself.
In my story, I am sitting in a gray cubicle where I won't matter after I am gone.
Ed McMann died this week. So did a bunch of other people.
Farah Fawcett is in raggedy suede strips of cloth on posters.
She's just died of complications arising from rectal cancer
Mike says its from getting it up the ass too much. Kinky women.
I'm thinking of her son strung out in jail, finally having a legitimate reason to escape.
Mothers are beautiful and overbearing things.
I am contemplating ice cream in the sun.

Rain hammers hard against the streets and the window behind me.
The fog of gray covering the skies is night in the daytime.
Thunder is cracking the sky so loud
Elizabeth ten minutes walking, and 15 minutes icream distance can hear it.
There won't be any ice cream today
Probably best to watch gluttony and the figure instead
The coupon will last all of July.
Michael Jackon is dead and I don't know it yet.
The skies do.
In the afternoon, I'm thinking that I'll never get to meet him.
Not that I wanted to, until now.
Thriller scared me as a child in Nigeria.
You are Not Alone almost convinced me that I wasn't.
There are too many people for you to be alone; loneliness doesn't notice.
Another powerful person has passed me at the stoplight.
People crowd the hospital waiting aimlessley.
It is enough that he is significant.
I am in jealousy and Awe because it is enough that he sang.
I can't make 365 days count for anything yet.
I would have liked to shake his hand, point towards the future and tell him that he is not alone.

-Fan