Tutankhamun

When we die,
before they've finished
petrifying our empty meat
to match our lacquered pine box,
we are already being idealized
by those with the good fortune
to outbreathe us.
Treated as golden idols
of our earthly selves,
as is the unwritten rule.

Every pursuit becomes noble,
every foible deemed endearing,
every vice dubbed a God-damn-
kick-in-the-teeth-to-society-
and-that's-the-way-he-liked-it
for men to chuckle over nostalgically
sitting at the bar (that is,
the vices which aren't
conveniently allowed to fade).

Having spent my short life
striving for nothing more
than delineating unmitigated truths,
I've always wanted to remember
exactly what people were.
Beautiful or ugly, that's what
made them unique.
Instead of casting their bust in gold
regardless of who they actually were,
the strong hardy types would be
steel gray, the bastards leaden-faced,
the misers etched in salt.

But that's not how it is.
We all get that golden mask
like Tutankhamun himself.
And try hard as I may
to work it otherwise,
I can hear it now
(cue introspective
cigarette drag):

"Ah yeah, that Mike,
God rest his soul,
he was always trying
to find out the truth
about people...
pretty noble, eh?"