your father died in Vegas with lipstick stains like blood butterflies on his chest but not painted on his lips, which makes your grandpa nod to himself knowing daddy wasn't some fucking transvestite. they say it was a heart attack, and those kisses look like attack enough for you to believe them.
you had the funeral in the elvis chapel, and everything was still pink and white and doused in aphrodisiac like damsels doused in gasoline. your family was dressed in black, like after that gasoline girl gets set on fire.
the priest sung slow springsteen ballads on his ukulele and you don't know if his voice is shaky cause he's crying, or mimicking elvis too well.
at your fathers funeral they had fake white roses, and your mother was clutching him and crying in the casket, and your little sister said he was a king, and so she made him a flower crown of real red roses that she didn't know he was bringing to the redhead showgirl snorting crank in the motel 6 and you're never gonna tell her.
at your fathers funeral you tore the social anxiety from your mouth like weeds, and told the priest to quit the baby stuff, and play hound dog. and you did the jerk with your mom, and you did the twist with your grandpa, and you did the locomotion all by your lonesome like your dad did when he was 19, in his blue jeans with his peace signs up. and preaching flower power with real, white daisies. he didn't care much for roses back then.
