Great Ooga-Booga, in your golden pavilion beside the dung heap, please don’t let me die in a public place. I still see the man on the café floor at the airport beneath a canopy of florescence, somewhere in the Midwest or back East, travelers walking around him & texting on cell phones while someone shocked him back, fiddling with dials & buttons on a miraculous instrument. Was the memory of a dress in his head?
Great Ooga-Booga, forgive me for wearing out my tongue before I said your praises. No, I haven’t mastered the didgeradoo. I don’t have an epic as a bribe. My words are simple. Please don’t let me die gazing up at a streetlight or the Grand Central facades. Let me go to my fishing hole an hour before the sun sinks into the deep woods, or let me swing on the front porch, higher & higher till I’m walking on the ceiling.