A Poet Can Live Forever

Maybe one day

in the far far far future,

I'll have

my introduction written

by someone famous.

Pablo reincarnate.

Bukowski shitting blood.

Plath passing gas

while Stanford blows his brains out

in another room.

Maybe one day

I'll be on a bookshelf

in a black bouquet of gay pride

tuck & hide,

while Ortega cums

to set the mood.

These are my people-

the ones I want to die with.

Tink-blink, chain of eyes

overlooking

new blood moon.

Maybe one day,

daylight will spring punctuation,

and my leftoverness

will cause people to mass Molotov

our Ribbentrop pact.

Or maybe,

I'll leave this earth

without barely scratching

the surface,

and my poetry will unload

like a whisper,

uttered at the burial of

another restless night.