I find myself wanting to die
on the good nights rather than the bad.
I will be the embers for your fire,
the ashes to your stog,
the burn to your Tullamore Dew.
Surround me as if at a party,
or a music video,
and we will revel till I die.
It will be a ready-made funeral.
The women will weep
and the men will weep
and say, “Hey, he did what he did.”
It won’t be this big thing, I guess.
A celebration of life rather than
a sadness in death.
I guess I will tell the angels
or the demons
that I burnt bright like
the first fire that man ever saw or
the supernova diving into the black hole or
motherfucking Willam Henry Harrison,
I guess I could say more
it’s so much everything that
it’s almost nothing.