I Ask That I Do Not Die

—but if I do

I want an open coffin

I am an American poet and therefore open

for business

Owls peck the windows of the 21st century

as if looking for

the board members

of Exxon Mobil

who who who who who

Listen

my beloved nothings

your seriousness

will kill you!

But before you die

my doctors

have prescribed happiness

God is a warm brick

or a claw

or the silence that survives

empires

An old woman

in the rain with a pot of mushroom soup

is one of God’s

disguises. Her dog

lifts its leg

                  another one of God’s shenanigans

and pushes its nose

into morning’s ribcage

I point my hand

                  God this and God that and

when God has nothing

I still have my hairy hand for a pillow

Put me in an open box

so when God reaches inside my holes

I can still see

how a taxi makes a city more a city

                  slippers on my feet, and only half

covered by a sheet,

in a yellow taxi

so as not to seem laid out in state

but in transit