The rumbling thunder rustled you for more,
the world over and the more you gave us
the more we spat.
It roared rapaciously
without clause
without remuneration or permission
without pity or nitty because we didn’t care.

Succumbing to the pressure and the token to please
you gave us all, uncontested,
without twisting your acrobatic swagger.

You extended us your hands at your own velocity,
you gave us the moon, and the pedestal and
sang your spheric choreographed sounds.
We danced at your aerodynamic decorated pottery,
bid the tabloid scar that fell in a vacuum.
We summoned the truth
pounded and gunned at the obvious
bidding for more and more you gave us.

We turned your turntable over,
showed you no gratitude and narcissistic we were
unconcerned we became of your essence,
dejected of your sorrows but it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter that you were being impeached.
It didn’t matter that your grace and worthiness were being cheated on.

Without proof we deemed you resilient, a genius.
Your music echoed and we kept infusing,
piercing,
pushing,
asking,
pushing and
the more we infiltrated,
the more we took us back.

We mocked your kindness and wittiness;
rubbishly prosecuted and dubbed you a rainbow of monickers;
we painted you blue, red, black, purple and
salaciously enslaved you to the tabloid without remunerating the truth.
We swung you the baseball bat with a fury of a hurricane and
dogged you peculiar and surprising.
We ridiculed and taunted you like pit bulls and
furiously allude to you as “The King”, the high school bully.
We crucified you and hanged your truth on the bridge leading to the city,
leaving you in pieces at the dinner table but it did not matter.
We jabbed at you because we could,
no one told us we couldn’t but
you smiled anyway!

We made you famous,
the way you were,
what you became and
we didn’t care,
we just kept asking.
Michael, you were a thread in a needle
a diamond in a container
an accessory to our living and forever.
You were you, you gave us you, we made you
so forgive us for our trespasses
as we try to lick our wounds pretending that we miss you because
no one told us we couldn’t.

© Angela M. Aguiar