Every year I blow
through the calendar date
on which my lungs will cease whispering
and my neurotransmitters will stop sending
the codes that fire imagination into reality
and keep my armature of bones from
crumbling into chalk.
Amen and amen. Such blindness is a blessing.
I wish to put on a three-piece suit and dine out
without being chauffeured by a shadow.
In fact, I will kiss a beautiful woman in
even though her husband,
the size of a side of beef,
knocks the fillings from my molars
with a haymaker that leaves me
just this side of the grave, but smiling.
I will do this and more in blissful ignorance,
like writing notes to myself,
secured to the fridge by a GREATEST DAD
about what I should remember to do
in 2048, the Year of Our Lord.
I will finish reading The Canterbury Tales
while hiking three miles of the
In the spirit of a true pilgrimage,
I will challenging fellow hikers to a contest
to see who can tell the most outlandish story.
Mine will be about kissing a stranger in a
before needing considerable dental work.
And I will attend Keith Richards’ party
when he reaches a weathered one hundred and two
and consider hanging an IV drip of Jack
In the distance is a mountain ten miles high,
its top a piece of granite jutting above the rim
of the forever-reeling earth, the father of tribes
and the bringer of mojo to the young at
That’s my headstone, but it will take me years
to lay my body at its base and say, “Good night.”
I am a modern-day Ulysses, home from the war
but hungry for continued mischief and a
What would be the point of knowing
that an out-of-control Ferris wheel
might hurl my body into the stratosphere
on some Tuesday afternoon, May twelfth, at
I have written my epitaph. It says,
“Death took more than a few jabs at me,
but I was a moving target.”
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