We'll sweep up the ashes in the morning
—Gram Parsons
Just wing it—
doused in whisky, disguised
in flammable polyester
as a funeral director,
the hearse you hijack
will drag the stolen coffin
to the desert, sparing the body
being flown home
to Louisiana, there buried—
the deceased wanted
to be burned, someone overheard.
The ripening remains.
The reaping goes
on without us
seeing—no longer do we bathe
our own dead.
Busy yourself,
being not yet buried—
The body you steal
may well be your own—
In my hour of darkness
in my time of need
buy a six pack, and gasoline
enough to get you
there, enough to pour
down the thirsty throat
of death—soaking the body
beleaguered, bet against—
your garments rent.
Beg the light
to linger. The blaze you build
will shine the night
like a shoe—
a thin wick
against the dark.
If heaven, if anything
after, then
it too burns bright—
for a time—
