Fanfare for the Dead

(written September 15, 2006)

If I am a poet, I am a double-edged sword with no handle and you are at the tip of my blade. If it hurts enough to bleed, then it hurts enough to taunt you with it. A blank eyed stare and a quiet desperation in laughter is more of a sign of Nervous than holding a loaded gun. The road to my house is a quiet desperation. It circles around the round about and spins, urging you to speed up the hill, but if you don't turn the wheel...a fanfare for the dead, if you're lucky. But if in that split second before you hit the pole (cost: $2,500) you start to turn the wheel, you'd hit on the passenger side and probably only damage your car. I try to guess as I pass this pole each day on my way home from work which I would do. Hit or turn the wheel? Let's play a different game. One where you end up brain damaged and talked about in whispers (oops, too late for that one) and remembered as the one who pushed up speed bumps. I think I'm a bit too attached to my brain, even on bad days, to want that. What guarantee does one ever have of death?I have a morbid fascination with death, rather, with my own death. I don't fear it, but it still fascinates me. Perhaps it's better spoke as a fascination with quiet desperation. I've researched ways to die, and tried a few. I've researched ways to live, and tried a few. Still researching I guess. I need the company of sailors, to tell me where they've been. I need a cafe in Praha where the food is mostly American. I need a bridge over a murky river and a clock older than time. I need a ruin of a church and green green grass. I need out.