I may have been, in my own words, a tortured man
for all seasons, but it’s infuriating to die. Not that
it’s unexpected. Or even inconvenient. It’s just a pisser.
As Dylan sang, an idiot wind. Not gonzo. Although
I was supremely pissed at my wife (now ex) at the time.
Still, death it is, and dead I must be. So, Owl farm
is available. I live there after all. And worse,
football season is over. For me and that lovable fart Nixon.
I know he evacuated earlier. Work with me here. OK?
I’m dying. Remember? Tortured as well. I won’t explain
shit, especially the last thing I wrote. One word: counselor.
According to no less an authority than The Rolling Stone,
who kindly published what they thought was my obit,
my last words were – “Relax. It won’t hurt”.
You empty a gun into your head and see if that makes sense?
Hell, having my ashes blasted out of a cannon over
Woody Creek canyon was a walk in the goddam park.
The moment appears, unannounced,
though I sensed its approach, and felt
its hand take mine. You too will know
this comfort upon exit. I grow larger
as time collapses. Your presence,
everywhere in the room, outside,
and beyond. Filling my heart. My lungs.
Becoming the blood I was and am now
unbecoming. “Do not be afraid.”
Richard Weaver is the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press). His poems here in 2River are from a collection based on the final words of famous people, some of which have appeared in Adelaide, After the Pause, andLoch Raven Review.