A Critical Review
You get to have a life review when you die -
or so I am told.
The hope of a do-over has me living here still
on this tiny blue planet on the far edge of nowhere,
with the thought of endless second chances.
Supposedly, when the movie of my life
plays out its going to be critiqued,
It will be hard to look away,
to hum quietly to myself
during the embarrassing stuff
pretending it wasn’t me,
just some bad actor, in a B-movie.
Of course I will play down the good,
smugness can take you only so far.
Meanwhile my search for God continues.
Perhaps he is a ghost in my movie,
perhaps the Creator wrote the script,
meaning again – not my fault.
I hope I get a chance to self-edit,
to cut out the boring, the mediocre,
the addictive crap,
erasing forever the jerk and the fool.
I don’t know why
all those heart-busting tragedies,
had to be recorded,
I’m more suited to light comedy.
I want that ghostwriter of my story
to admit he exaggerated,
to confess that I was never really there
in that long-winded plot;
that I was the sole audience
in his empty theater
detached from the muddle of a life,
a play that he deliberately screwed up
just to make me look bad.
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