Where will I go when I die?
No, I don’t mean my body,
For when my soul rises up out of my pores
and I evaporate into my own shadow—
A ghostly transparency of the person I used to be—
It is only a body
Whether collecting crud in a discount coffin until I crumble to nothing but
Lonely, forgotten bones,
Or ignited to dust (speeding up tradition, really,
To free my loved ones of the burden of visiting my decay)
My dust will be sprinkled on some distracted ground
that my legacy thought meant something to me,
It is still just a body.
Whatever decision is made, my ghostly glow will dance across my children’s shoulders
Moaning that I wish they hadn’t kept me in those awful fucking shoes,
They wouldn’t dare dump that urn in the bay,
and that it’s silly to cry over a body.
My flickering soul
Will float to the shining solace above and wait for admittance
To my beautiful eternity.
Warm bubble bath pools, silky cloud pillows,
my ever full glass of sauvignon blanc,
and my grandparents
With taut skin and satin robes
Riding horses along the beach with Elvis and Gene Kelly
I’ll throw my transparent hands to rest behind my head
and relish in my holiness…
And then I’ll start to dim and flicker
when I remember how many “sick days” I took,
all the vicious words I’d spat,
that time I told my son I saw his home run,
when I had really been stuck in line for my Venti Iced Chai.
I’d always been a hothead, and now,
I think I’m a sinner.
Maybe some Godly voice will boom through the skies,
Shooting sparks of lightning through my almost-paradise—
As I tumble,
A ball of light,
Down to the cold earth, just as I’d always known it,
But now with nobody to catch me.
Do I squeeze my fluorescence into some other body?
A turtle, maybe, curled cozily into my shell?
Or maybe the golden finch marching outside my window sill.
(I’d always wanted to fly.)
Maybe I’ll crowd the hospital with the fidgety fathers,
their noses pressed to the looking glass of their future,
and lighten one of those new, Squeaky clean
and loved bodies with my old soul.
I’ll be sure to choose the tot with the longest fingers.
Yes, I’m sure I’m meant to be a rock star!
I can see it now…
Me, on every television set in every home all over the world
Shredding on my Les Paul with some other bad ass chicks
With cool purple hair.
I guess maybe I do need a body.
Without a body, there is no life,
No adventure short of Jacuzzis and grandparents.
I’d like to think that every decade or so,
When my perfect afterlife gets too tedious,
I can float back down to this evolving earth
And be whomever I chose.