For Billie Jean
You’ve crushed mom’s crush on Ahmadinejad at last. At least for the moment she’s obsessed with mourning, making Spanish omelets, and mumbling Christ this and that every other minute. Babbling loudmouth elephant woman tossing eggshells and yolk to the wind and then some. She’s gone mayhem and I think she’s on the verge of something Big, a new sorrow added to her sordid daily beast. In utero I knew she was inamorato with you, from what I gander, inane woman so full of love—and possibly horny too.
“Christ, pass me the eggs,” she asked.
“He’s busy,” I mumbled, always out of reach.
She always wanted to be Billie Jean, a little white liar and morbidly obsessed. Cold comfort for her in the 80’s was practicing the moonwalk while she dressed for work. She always wanted to live in West L.A. Always wanted a real bank account and a gun. Twin boys. Spot me some cash was/is her all time favorite line.
Dear King of Pop, she’s cursed of course, but it’s not your fault, she was born with ears and a penchant for tabloids, but she’s not a witch nor a beauty queen. The other day I caught her setting fire to the neighbors Wall Street Journal while smoking a cigar. Caught her memorizing the Dow Jones Industrials while it went up in flames. What does it mean? Does it mean she dreams? Of death by match?
Dear King of Pop, what gives this woman such chutzpah? I mean seriously, she’s like the ayatollah’s daughter, a religious beast at least on the surface. Even though you teased her your whole life, she persists. You made her feel inadequate in your presence but she’s still mesmerized by your glitter and glum, anti-golden locks, and boy-wonder charm. I wonder if there is a connection between you and me. I wonder if she’ll ever dance with me (as you) again. I was the werewolf to her Billie Jean who would dance with her when no one else was round.
I found a collage of a thousand faces in her closet stuffed in her old high top Reebok sneaker box. I found another box with a thousand more faces, all cut outs from People Magazine. I found an empty box with your name red Magic markered and gold glittered. I fear that box won’t remain empty for long. I fear she tossed her favorite pumps in the trash to make room for her cremated ashes when she’s dead. Maybe I’m just paralyzed.
“Christ. He will not rise again,” she said, as if I knew who or what the hell she was talking about, but I knew she wasn’t referring to Jesus. “I know,” I said. “He’s dead.” She fell to her knees on the kitchen floor and scraped up what was left of her grim faced omelet. Mom wasn’t much of a housemaid.
“Five second rule,” she said then smiled.
Dear King of Pop, I ate that hairy tear-splattered omelet because of you. I regret to inform you I was never a fan but she was the one who was to the end.