Who would care to listen, of course me, who has the answer and question ready, me, I will be here listening untill you leave: let me listen. And so be still then, so still, you listen to everything else drown out, what it is you came here for, to hear me out. I have thought, only recently, you were listening to me speak, but not until you spoke up, quickly, before I had the chance to. I tell you unremittingly, die. Take it, believe it, hold it so dear. “Dear those who are concerned, I am writing to you, sadly, to inform you that he has died today. Precisely at noon, when the clock and sun struck accord. Farewell.”
These were my last words, words that only began to make them read again– Reading to understand to make sure, verify, check for errors, anything misleading—And still the question remains: “Who sent this, who wrote this.” What they really say, whenever I am away, is, “Can we trust him.” I wish they wouldn’t make it so obvious, that is, making me so sexually charged, repulsive even, sometimes. But I was dead, why do they care, if they could only read between the lines—lay out the familiar to the impossible, and compare. I was about to say it myself before they wrote back, asking, “Where are his belongings, if any?”
I chuckled, do you believe it, my face dimmed and a drip of water—tears no less—jiggled gleeful. “I cannot help in this manner,” I began, “ it is of personal worth and responsobility to whoever is concerned to undertake whatever is necessary for the retrieval of the belongings—in consideration,” and so I left it at that. I should have said more explicity, “Stop. Look, over there, no not there, stop. Yes, there. Watch me, do as I do, put your head down to the ground feel everything out—lightly at first of course—and then come back a second time with more care.” One ear to the earth, a new species, perhaps a wake of the living, in response to death. To turn back, evolve, revolve, one knee, shoulders over them, and so the race continues, again, as if.
