I hope you all get a trick or treat this Halloween, but if you don't get either, here's a poem for your pillowcase.
how to get out.
if you are lucky, your closest living relative will have provided
a safety device: such as a bell, a whistle, or, for the modern day
dead, a cell phone. though reception may be difficult to attain
at six feet under. expect the darkness in which your shadow
abandons you and possesses itself. the odor of excretion:
sweat and urine. the putrid stench of decomposition. of flesh-flies’
adoration. don’t worry, it’s not shit or skunk or road kill: just you.
don’t panic…the increase of psychological distress. will shorten
the breath. you’ve no clue. how much is left. how many last gasps.
torment don’t squirm…you will only hurt yourself
don’t fear. your death. your body has already
suffered the process: instead pretend it’s a possibility
for another life. when you’re finished shrieking. take. a few.
minutes to become acquainted with your casket. first check:
for a signaling device. should you find one, thank Count
Karnice-Karnicki. should you not, curse your closest living relative.
grope on: there should be a book or a cross, love letters or prayers
your teddy. you may take a moment to hug teddy___okay stop.
put him aside, he’s no good as a shovel. waste no time for the ground
to settle. over you. for the rain to make dirt clods pebbles. for petals
to brown and sink. angle the remains so that your legs may be
useful. push the lid. and dig. with the cross or book edge or desperate
empty hands. and head up. just head up. without. hesitation. scrape
till you bleed. you think. asphyxiation. the alternative: dirt up nose.
rocks down ears. why fear suffocation? in panic one scrapes for solution
yet. it’s elementary. dig up. dig up. dig up. until there are six feet under.