The bodies do not want to be buried.
Never did. Never in Asia, Iceland, Brisbane, Kenya,
North America, Egypt, Byzantium, the very smallest
of Bahamian islands. No, they prefer open-air
decomposition, even if it means buzzard
sexcavating the abdomen, eye sockets, maggot
shappy at buffet, or a slow, dumb
pruning in the sun.
Death is not the issue, folks—
No, it’s all that dirt, shale, sand and gravel
dumped and packed with such presumption
—LISTEN UP: it is an al fresco here
after the deceased desire.
Till then they shall continue to curse and conspire, pay us
back with tsunamis and simooms, frost heaves, hail,
hurricane, flood, mudslide, typhoon. Dolores, thank your
Cousin Horace, cremated in ‘72,for destroying your opulent weekend
home in Ojai. We owe him and his cronies sudden
brush-fire, lava, cyclonic mayhem, the spontaneity of
tornadoes. Indeed, California, our most populous
state—or should I say cemetery?—shoulders the brunt
of the restitution, though we’re talking pandemic here—Alpine avalanches; Grand Tetons in a crumble of rock-slide; Senegal enervated by steady drought; surprise
blizzards trapping Vermont; Kobe was no accident.
Didn’t you see the upturned graves on CNN?
I implore you: stop the madness: place your dead pet or sibling
in a comfortable lawnchair, give just expired grandparents
a view of the swingset. O
ceanloving aunts are besttied to the masts of cruiseships. And you, flat-roof
homeowners proud in the Midwest—rethink summer
hospitality—host patio parties for the decomposing!
They will so appreciate dusk from your roof-top
sduring the long oven of August. No doubt about it,
if we were to support such a movement globally
natural disasters would desist. Everyone could call
their trusty insurance agents, remove the pricey
flood and fire premiums. So go ahead, disinter Nancy
and Gwyneth, Uncle Benito, dead Baby Bishop,
offer them the pleasure of staying within earshot
of soap operas and clothesline talk, their right
to hibachi aroma and the airborne bacteria
gently munching them from scalpto toe like some final orgasm
exquisite for its length.Why not plan ahead for your elderly parents?
Intuit their corpsey needs and dispense with
the die-drain-pump-dress-dig-dump-shovel-cover-over, flowers on Memorial Day hooplaand surrender your cadavers,
your loves,
to wind, bird, bug and sun,
give them their due, let them become
the sabers and batons, maces,
marimbas and magic wands, proud
racks of bones made availableto an imaginative future:
one’s great, great, great
grandchildren waving femursin favorite backyard games,
rambunctious after school.
