If I Die, Before I Wake

They will find my fat corpse
In his underwear,
In this dirty apartment
In Korea.

The fan will be buzzing.
The fruit flies will be hovering.
The cockroach survivors
Of my poisonous blitzkrieg,
Will be dancing a triumphant
Jig on my cold, bald, head.

My notebooks will be thumbed
Through by officious fingers.
Packed up, sent off, against
My written wishes, to my aging
Father in Texas.

Who am I to deny him
The grace of this grief?
He will peruse my drawings
Of Gods with big cocks,
True depictions of illicit lust.
And they will bust him open.

Mad cosmic, comic graffiti
Will leave him numb.
His good Baptist heart will break,
And he will fall down, asking,
"What did I do wrong?"

Well, let the letters of apology
Remain unwritten; let the excuses
Become soggy.
Somebody else will tidy up.

I have an appointment with
The putrid.
I am due to decay.
I can't be bothered with tomorrow.
I have to get ready;
Belly up to the bar.

Shiva, when he took human form,
Was scared shitless of giving it up.
He had to be killed.
Jesus sweated blood in the Garden,
The night before the Grand Farewell.
He kicked and screamed all the way
To Glory.

So, what hope have I, to bow out with
Grace?

No, I am sure I will cry and plead, wet
My pants, beg for one more hour, a minute,
Or one last moment.

I will gasp, and clutch, and thrash around,
Like a fish thrown up on the bank.

I will, of course, review my life,
All things undone,
The cruelties, the unspent love.
Rejoicing in the few times I said,
"Yes".

Then comes the letting go.
As easy as prying your
Fingers from the edge of a cliff.

No falling. No terror. Well, maybe
Just a little. A small struggle,
A desperate grasp, slipping off the edge.

Then there is the going, to that place
You have always been.
Waking up.
Like a bright, beautiful flame, giving in
To the breath.