In case I die in March,
or get a job on a Judd Apatow project,
keep me as close
as an apathetic apatosaurus,
because, either way,
you won't be hearing from me.
I will be continuing my travels
to lowercase heaven or uppercase Hell,
Brooklyn or Silver Lake, the tallest cabinet,
where I will be watching Heathers
waiting, maybe shoplifting
in east egg or west.
With only a harmonica and a laptop,
fraught within a nation of trains and heat,
I will try to be patient among explosions
and keep my ten-dollar words to myself,
because life's carnival rides are vicious
and bitches on windowsills still think I have brides.
In case I die in April,
or find a place to land in the winter of May,
I will continue to whisper, especially to myself,
because with misery in tons of fun,
nothing is better or more depraved than speaking plaining,
and there is too much to remember and you remember me.