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The dead want to talk to me about stupid things.
like, does ‘Chick-Fi-A’ still make spicy sandwiches?

I thought the dead could walk through walls
and see our thoughts;
apparently they are all in a dark room
watching old documentaries,
trying to find stuff they now miss.

I want to ask them about the big questions,
like how the afterlife is better than this one,
or how worse than this one it is - at its worst?
They though want only to reminisce -
jaw about which muscle car was the very best,
what team last won the Super Bowl,
do they still sell purple jelly beans,
or how the Kardashians are doing?

Seems that stupid stuff is infinite.
Seems like human nature is irredeemably silly.
Dead seers, gurus, and prophets
now only want to caper about like village idiots.
I tell them there are few village idiots
in the wider world anymore,
they’ve all moved to New York and California,
then they giggle like little girls
demanding more details.

I try to meditate on higher matters
but the dead burst through my mind,
looking for that rare ‘Kiss” album they once had,
yapping about can be got the finest craft beer -
the most effective liposuction work
or wrinkle creams,

In that after-life theater
where they watch our long-running sitcoms,
passing the popcorn, still dreaming up
more silly questions,
while patient angels wait for them to renounce
 all thought of purple jellybean for good.

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