Friday, April 22, 2011


I wish to die a slow death riddled
with something incurable -
that you would die for anyway. 
I don’t want to go unknowingly
in my sleep
or fiercely combust in a blaze of glory. 
I’d prefer to suffer
home to a number of infirmities
steeped in awareness
of my own tragic flaws.
I could lose my mother tongue
my ability to smell fries and vinegar
or a fresh summer rain on the fur
of spring violets. 
I might become a simple blank stare
where the trees once met the sky. 
Clouds would not matter
or the earthworm turn of seasons
save for the layers
I might need to assume. 
I wouldn’t mind keeping
some bodily functions
as in the basics;
peeing, drinking
knowing when to love
and when  the burner
should be turned to off.
My heart I’d also like to keep
close to my chest -
like a house of cards
so close to collapse that
all it would take
would be a puff of breath
or a  ghost of a hiccup.
I’d rather die a slow death riddled
with something incurable -
your afterimage still burning.

1 comment:

Shakespeare said...

Glad to see you back and firing on all cylinders!