I consider you all to be frightful morons, considerate

only of your water weight, if we die, I perceive we must die in some

partially arid desert, where the frights and haunts go away, bled

of their translucence by an impartial sun. Saguaro cacti bloom;

they need our blood. So we should lay down and rest where the sand cobblers

will make pies of our stomachs, where our brains will be spilt for seed

kindling, (at our tiniest components, we are indistinguishable—) from

great forest fire. And disregarding our teeth, maybe even as the light

rots away our forehead, our kidneys, our thighs—we can be similar enough

so that in ten years time, (twenty, thirty, fifty) whatever

it takes to be alike—some detective or wandering rover can discover

us, a loose collection of implements, hearing aids and glasses worn

true to life, maybe some chipped bones remaining, but maybe not—and

they won’t know who we are, or what we did. They’ll have to X-ray

our remains, or dig through the stomachs of nearby cobras, rattlesnakes,

the latest local scorpion bunch. Over brunch, cadaver experts will piece

through our remains, blue filmy images, death-like in the light. Munching

on salad and omelettes and toast. Then we can be the same, at last, regardless

of moronhood, of cruelty, of past slights or indecencies. Kindling for wildflower

wood. Poppies springing from cushioned chest, impact making rudimentary pots

for that centennial superbloom, we are all waiting for a rainy fall. Better that

than hating you, needing you, feeling superior to your failings, your slights, all