When I die
I want to be stuffed
stuffed and mounted on the wall
like some poor old deer
who got caught in the headlights
Not just the antlers mind you
but the whole fucking catastrophe―
glass eyes mop of hair
scars stretching beyond Wyoming
Gutted by the skin of my teeth
like dead animals and birds
I want to be filled with that special fake something―
that makes me look like I’m alive―
the stuff that dreams are made of
When I die
I want to hang around
collect dust
remind everyone
that even if I am well past
my expiration date
I’m still here
Well perhaps not in any
meaningful way
but a testament to
my long shelf-life
(perhaps a little shelfish of me)
Alas…
How strange
to be so prominently displayed
in my own absence…
able now to appreciate
the trophy I really was
in anticipation
Keeping alive
the art of keeping the dead alive
takes talent―
one I don’t have as of yet
and a souvenir that won’t keep
until only after I’m gone
Life’s funny that way