What a moment!
When you realize
that your lips had been more numb
than from Szechwan peppercorns,
and that numbness
has slid into paralysis.
You are dying:
death by Fugu --
poison blowfish.
Your heart will stop.
You will keel over,
falling from your stool
at the sushi counter.
A booth-dweller,
seeing you bounce off
an adjacent patron,
wonders why you don't
bring your arms up to catch yourself,
but - of course - they're dangling
uselessly,
and so you land face first.
The booth-dweller cringes.
There's nothing to be done for you.
You had the nerve
to try the Fugu!
But, while Fugu life is exhilarating;
Fugu death is inglorious.
I'm wired and amped; my feet know the last dance.
What's a poor old end-run death dog to do
But surrender to music's honeyed trance,
Waltzing to it like dreams that seem cuckoo?
But nothing 's crazy at last dance juncture --
Just before the call for all to get lost:
When sanity stretches but won't rupture,
And one can see crystalizing hoarfrost.
The Greeks' Styx. The Hindus' Vaitarna. The Norse Gjȍll. The Gnostic's Hiṭpon. The Japanese Sanzu-no-Kawa. The Mesopotamians' Hubur. Taoists cross Naihe Bridge -- over what (I'm not sure, but) is probably a river.
I click on Google Maps;
a pin highlights for a cemetery,
and, here, I stumble upon
graveyard reviews.
These reviews intrigue me because
it seems to me that if one is capable
of writing a cemetery review,
then one is unqualified.
And, if one is qualified to comment
on the caliber of an eternal resting place,
then one is unlikely to be capable of
posting a review.
I read one of the one-star reviews
and see that the reviewer's principal complaint
is an overabundance of "pocong."
"What is a 'Pocong?'" you may ask.
It is a Javanese ghost that takes up
occupancy in death shrouds.
Why is there a Javanese ghost
infestation in a cemetery 4000 kilometers
from Java, and -- as near as I can tell --
with zero Javanese occupants?
The review does not say,
but I love that someone panned
a cemetery based on the presence
of foreign ghosts
[and not because it is simultaneously
phasmophobic and xenophobic.]
But because it shows an unbridled commitment
to one's imagination that is usually
only seen among children.
dying by the second
from a starving brain;
each new panicked moment
narrows down the frame.
now, my world is dwindling,
shrinking to a dot:
like TV's used to do
when you shut them off.
Now, this poem is done.
there's nothing past one pel --
except for oblivion:
no sight, no sound, no smell.
In the drowsy dark caves of the mind / dreams build their nest with fragments / dropped from day’s caravan.
From the solemn gloom of the temple / children run out to sit in the dust, / God watches them play / and forgets the priest.
The wind tries to take the flame by storm / only to blow it out.
The same sun is newly born in new lands / in a ring of endless dawns.
When death comes and whispers to me, / “Thy days are ended.” / let me say to him, “I have lived in love / and not in mere time.” / He will ask, “Will thy songs remain?” / I shall say, “I know not, but this I know / that often when I sang I found my eternity.
Fireflies by Rabindranath Tagore is in the public domain and can be read at sites such as:
Tiger Riding for Beginners 