Death is real, so be it,
but what happens to me?
Does it morph slowly, pushing
my consciousness into the ground,
magic hands kneading me into shapes,
out of the flesh vessel and into.. ?
What? Tell me if I turn into another
being, if I try at this again, where I go
and how I travel. Will it reveal things?
How big is my spirit? A triangle?
Is it the size of a turtle trudging
through suburban yards? I imagine
I am close. Does it take forever?
And when I pass through
its shredded velvet do I touch
and become it? Fill up the blade
of grass and wear the God-suit?
May I speak in my own way?
Will there be some form of play?
Relaxation balanced with something
greater than my magic floating crystal
nebula, like an 1980s sci-fi graphic?
Will there still be the ’80s, a time
that means nothing to me because
why would it? Would I see it
through a glass shadow, peer
in and learn all I could want to?
Or does it flicker like a VHS tape,
a red reality of FBI warnings
nearing its blue end? Are you
a genderless, electric promise?
Is God a bathtub? Is He the thing you
can urinate in, lay in the bottom of
with water spray hitting your clean face,
a hollow metal shell pre-built to fit
between your bony walls, His empty space?
If I throw your promise into Him,
a VCR still plugged into a shoddy outlet,
will I live again? Will imagination go back
to flat? Don’t I remember you telling me that
prodigal numbers will leopard crawl back into
their homes of quiet barbed wiring? That smiling
adjectives — relatives — wait for them there?