on losing the thread
when it comes time for the leaving,
let me not be burned-tight and wispy,
my breath a hard knot, and my ribcage webbing.
i want to feel my fingers on my face,
pressing eyeballs until i can feel the sockets,
the skull,
the soft mass behind.
i want to feel the pin pricks of your power until my last breath,
my nerves pentecostal flames,
the coming oblivion rushing divinity through every synapse.
(stir my bones with apocalyptic presence-
your snatched phrases are my gospel.)
it will be short.
it will be beautiful.
it will be melting wax on the hotplate of the universe.
i hope for no fireworks save the ones in my brain.
when it's time for leaving,
i want all five senses and another one just for kicks.
i want my feet warm and my breath cold,
no steam to mark the slowing of the machine.
as worlds crash with the sentiment and grace of a boxing ring,
i want to be the dropping microphone,
ears stiffening to my echoes,
drawing attention like a train wreck,
only to be pulled off again by an unseen hand-
i am no elijah,
but i can hope for that end just the same.
but,
when the time comes
and i am pulled, pushed, or prodded
into the rocket bloom of finite existence,
i would hope that you would be there,
your maker's hands on the corner of a sheet
or clutching for my sinking form.
words you don’t understand will roll off your tongue
in languages you never learned
and syntax you never studied.
pray for me in the way you know best:
in the turn of the pencil
and the train-track shudder of the heart.
the language of faith will take on new meaning
and holy days will lose their potency.
but by then, i will be leaving.
by then, i won't even care.
let me not be burned-tight and wispy,
my breath a hard knot, and my ribcage webbing.
i want to feel my fingers on my face,
pressing eyeballs until i can feel the sockets,
the skull,
the soft mass behind.
i want to feel the pin pricks of your power until my last breath,
my nerves pentecostal flames,
the coming oblivion rushing divinity through every synapse.
(stir my bones with apocalyptic presence-
your snatched phrases are my gospel.)
it will be short.
it will be beautiful.
it will be melting wax on the hotplate of the universe.
i hope for no fireworks save the ones in my brain.
when it's time for leaving,
i want all five senses and another one just for kicks.
i want my feet warm and my breath cold,
no steam to mark the slowing of the machine.
as worlds crash with the sentiment and grace of a boxing ring,
i want to be the dropping microphone,
ears stiffening to my echoes,
drawing attention like a train wreck,
only to be pulled off again by an unseen hand-
i am no elijah,
but i can hope for that end just the same.
but,
when the time comes
and i am pulled, pushed, or prodded
into the rocket bloom of finite existence,
i would hope that you would be there,
your maker's hands on the corner of a sheet
or clutching for my sinking form.
words you don’t understand will roll off your tongue
in languages you never learned
and syntax you never studied.
pray for me in the way you know best:
in the turn of the pencil
and the train-track shudder of the heart.
the language of faith will take on new meaning
and holy days will lose their potency.
but by then, i will be leaving.
by then, i won't even care.