Going to a party where I knew you’d be, dudes bobbing for boyfriends, eyes shining like candy apples. I want to be a lamppost, or the history of plumbing. I am tired of being mysterious. You are drinking rum next to the laughing skullheads and I am unhappy because I am dead and I miss you. Once a year, day of the dead, you think you’d think of me more often. These people shoulda dressed up as their best selves to mix and mingle in the couryard garden. If everything is green then why do I feel so blue? I would like to be a plain-faced man, living with you quietly. Leave the party but you can’t hear me you can no longer hear me. The dead are boring. Enlightenment is boring. We can read the minds of dogs. We make the black cats scatter across the grass. There is a better party where I am not a ghost and you are not Aquaman. I am like a pornstar, we are all of us pornstars aching to get back into our terrycloth robes. Gives me a headache, all this intellectual stimulation. It’s cold out tonight. I am here by the back wall, in the museum of the afterlife. I would like to be a flickering cowboy. I like the live music— we only get the recorded stuff here. I would like to be alive again. I would like to say something about grace.