Friday, February 18, 2011

2046. OK SO WHAT?

OK SO WHAT?
So, what they're saying is that I am dead.
I've found my name in a newspaper of the
future and - yes - they're mostly right. 2019,
or somesuch date. Like Albert Pinkham Ryder
himself, I've passed the fig-leaf of life and gone on.
-
Death rides a pale horse? I've heard that before and,
lustrous as some cracked enamel with a shine,
my surface is now marred by disbelief. I am nothing
at all, and have never really aspired past that.
Anyway. Nothing. New. OK? So what?

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