when i am to die, because there is no if in the matter,
whether it be two days or two hundred years,
may it be on this ground or out in technicolor stars
like bars on the rhythm of this mortal coil
where i am to return to the earth or the sky
or to whatever god has hold of the chain
around my neck giving me such
terrible mercies as to break it
snap it.
when i am to die, do not bury me in this sweet mother
the soft dark soil that is the bosom of Gaia proper,
improper to profane such beauty, such grace,
think of each and every lover we leave behind,
dont make them fall on our caskets
reaching once more tugging at our necks;
think of the pain a eulogy would bring
no, i wont do it i wont knowingly do it
so if you read in newsprint memoria
“they were loved and remembered, service at-“
fuck that, know that i wouldn’t want to lie
sallow in dark suit pinned by carnation and
why couldn’t they at least be roses
rising and falling on wailing chests
please, i beg,
If one person sees me in that suit
surrounded by pine, opining that i
left too young
it wasn’t my design
know that i wanted my heart strings plucked
placed in an urn
and wrapped in the velvet of this poem