About Being Dead

"Everything decays.

So, why not me?

Because I am me!"

Ha!

37.2 trillion cells in the human body.

And you are me?

You are a world.

Me is big, plural.

Death too singular to be true.

Stairway

For whatever reason, people want to see you scared.

You say "petscan" and you say "cancer"

and they're watching you like you're a movie.

If you don't say you're scared,

they wonder why you didn't,

like maybe you can't,

because you're probably scared.

I don't know, but death seems a long ways away,

so I'm flip about it now,

and soon head to Sorrento and Capri,

our vacation four years back,

and walk all those steps again.

Every machine sorely inept,

my eyes closed shut to keep from getting claustrophobic,

a wet cotton swab stuck in me for the dry mouth.

And then I saw a stairway,

each planet named on the steps.

Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Saturn...

And I didn't know if it was the life I led,

or what lay ahead.

Hymn

Whale is God.

Dolphin is God.

Cloud balanced perfectly on a January hill is, well...

Chevy Small Block on a dyno stand, pumped with too much air and ready to blow is where we should be dancing in praise and ecstasy and hope for eternal life ("Lighter is faster.")

All the Morning Glory destroying the backyard fence are relentless Gods.

Sometimes, even a dentist bill feels Biblical.

We are careless Gods.

Words are Gods? No, but eternity is glimpsed between them.

What about Now? Neither heaven or hell but equal.

Should we be Penitent? You are Penitent.

Also, You should know that You are You, and I can never know You—the loneliness and joy of being unique as everything else.

And Prayer is not what you think it is.

Wolf is multiple Gods in one.

Fast freeway traffic is our last true Church. Our only real Congregation.

Surprise

A bejeweled Indian elephant

walked as the beast in me

when I was only 10.

This remained unsaid.

Impoverished, now, as I am

by city streets, and still in love

with asphalt and cars,

I know how I am crippled.

Ah, might as well gather the wind,

as it skips down the lane. Or

capture the ocean; jail every wave.

My death is not that interesting.

It should come as no surprise.

We are a broad uninterrupted plain,

until deep canyons. And at the bottom

of each dark gorge is a wealthy man.

And I still blare the herd's wail.

Still dream of old corvettes.

Maintain myself in weather.

My tombstone a cold, cold lie.

There

As if holiness is not talking,

my father just shut up.

"I have to go now. I'll be here, I guess,

but there's nothing I can say

that you would ever understand."

His children, all grown, and angry:

What kind of father is this?"

We assumed dementia, so softly

all suggested, "You need a doctor."

He just smiled. Of course. You see?

"The construct is not true. Not real.

Whatever is in your mind does not exist.

I can't stay here just so I can talk to you."

What is it so important we don't know?

You're normal, and everyone is crazy?

"I'm old. I don't need to agree to eat.

Sex is over. Your mother's gone.

I don't have to live here any more."

Here? What is here? There is no there!

The worst part? He was happy!

No words. Just bliss.

As if there was something else

we could know. Now.

We couldn't say, "Merry Christmas,"

without him laughing.

Anyways, he grew younger,

and we passed in age.

Now, I'm dying, and he came

to say goodbye last night.

Smiling. A kiss. A hug.

Then, I knew.

The Day You Become A Poet, You Love The Reindeer Named Vixen

Every word a wriggly animal

or unstable chemical agent...

He didn't see it coming

but when he bought a can

of Rustoleum metallic gold

spray paint, he felt like

he had acquired

a new personal power....

Well, I rose up in a coastal forest,

cousin to the redwood trees,

friends with the mushrooms

that bubbled up all around.

All knew I'd leave the soil

to travel off with birds and deer.

Movement shocked some, a sorcery

of sorts. Son of dandelions,

ready to ride the next wind...

I had ideas no one liked, and so I was a weed,

I guess. Everything else got watered as I waited

for a drop of rain. Relentless annual, though,

I kept coming back. Seasons were just ticks

and tocks. Beware the march of lawn!

And the heavily pruned blooming

may be mere distraction!

They're going to annihilate us...

What say you, clouds?

Are we right to fall away?

Empty the beginnings

like a bag of old belongings

into which we accidentally

tossed our only comb...

They say we must destroy ourselves

or someone else will do it first

(and we are not who we think we are)...

It could be the size of a pocket,

and it could open up in the middle

of the living room. I'd climb in....

Or age into nothing to say

because no one's listening anyway,

and there is no magic beyond money,

good luck and maybe the right dog....

What's next? Clones to kill ourselves...

Yes, you see a thing / you can touch the thing.

The real matches up seamlessly.

Still, the universe hints that it's not
sewn together quite so well.

Be-be-buh-buh-came

what there was

was mud divinity

then spirits rose

in skin bags

of swamp water

and tree bones

knowing was just

a fact, Jack

until story

we became