In Death As In Life
A poem about all I am, was, will be
In Death As In Life
I used to think I wanted to be buried placed in the dirt no case, no glass box with the roots the grubs the sacred scarabs where I could sleep feed fuck shit die in a perfect circle as they do until I am sleeping feeding fucking and excreting parts of myself. That is eternal life, that’s the immortal. But now I’m thinking of smoking, drying, grinding myself as loose as powder rolled into rough sandalwood incense burned by the many so I’m floating above it all in the same way I lived, with the wind the changing of atmosphere, the currents and gusts that toss life this way then that. I’ll be there as I am now, taking it as it comes with no pressing measure only my practiced buoyancy keeping me afloat. Limpid unalloyed unentangled me, essence as light as the fragrance of a near ending Spring.
More, you say?
