living will

bury me under cigarette hill
where the ladies press the dirt to their lips
cuz you can't smoke in a chapel

gather all the remnants from my parents' house
sandwhich bags of old mohawks, pinned sharpied t-shirts, and broken jewelry
i don't need a coffin
but i want my vestments
i don't wanna be penned up in no box til the end of days
keep me on a slab
wait for the rains
push my face into the wet dirt and
keep pushing til it looks like this years crop of ankles have finally sprouted boots
leave them there
i want the men in my family
to dab their tzitzit in minkoil and oxblood
shine em up real pretty for the lord
i want the women in my family to lace em up real nice w/ real lace spoilt in tears
and i want the freaks in the house
to tongue them nasty
til everyone
can see their faces in the leather,
see their futures
their futures together
everything meant to come to pass

Oh, Doppler
God of Weather
grant me lightning
if you don't we'll use fuses and copper coils
to blow from their roots
the gangly trees that haunt
Illinois cemetaries

let them say that my death was the death of symbolic trees
the death of symbolism in general

the precise moment that
timber
splinters
headstones
in that mst hated of suburbs
(Northbrook)
I want the brass to strike a full jazz march
and when
they launch
their New Orleans dirty
run up of Amazing Grace
the moon should have the only white face you can see
and that honky better be laughing

don't fuck w/ no headstones
drag something out of an alley
an old door, a chunk of wood
drop an extra fin on some krylon and
graf me an epitaph
sticker it up like a 15 year old's guitar case
wrap a mausoleum around it
a place w/ no door
where squatters can rest their heads
closet cases can cruise blowjobs
and junior high kids can brownbag their vices and knock each other up

the seasons will change an the boots will wilt
snow will cover the ass ends of a million cigarettes
women will stop coming by to rub grit to their lipstick
before prayer
and the brass will return to rooved venues and decent songs for churchfolk

and in a million seasons
the sun will kick
snow will cover a whole globes worth of cigarettes
hopefully
there will be somebody
celestial bodies
to push the dead stars face into the wet earth
so that all you can see
shined by god and anointed with milk
are its two black boots