When dying (exiting his membrane twain tor and dale—that leveling fascia twining his primitive cock’s-crow—the sound of one revisiting jawbones lunging headfirst for the flipped coin that eviscerated him for having felt Its vibe) my father tells me to keep my “bone on til it rots.”
Awaiting havoc and mutiny, I mutely embody my wits with the dead torquing my trace, imposing their paucity, their fetish for the substance of re-collected recollections of re-collecting rational crypt impressions, tacitly proving our lethal ground, melting these seams into demonstrably deadly positions, hemming our mace for mêlée.
When I go native, I’ll let this kneading of peoples’ untilled entrails go, bequeathing that plunder to the lawnsmen—snuffling lucid aficionados of how the heart seems a leaking stalactite, which won’t do at 5:30 a.m.
So, I’ll attack what they love first, letting the time for battle flow. I’ll be like that home-bound virgin spreading her legs wide inviting them to something that just yesterday seemed so far out of reach.
If I flee like a squirrel when they come for me, they’ll never win. Yet if they scatter like squirrels when I come for them, I’ll still come out a head.
That’s what Dad meant…I think.