Tuesday, June 11, 2013

The Man Who Sells Coffins

So my father drives me to the crematorium in Vermont. We can't talk about it. I drink a lot of coffee, black. Purple Loosestrife abounds.

A friend writes, asking will I review his book. One dreams of grass, of women in Ireland and Rhode Island. The man who sells coffins sleeps better than you think. Oh please Lord may I not die alone!

Or, as You will, and not as I prefer. I remember certain pickups, and dogs always. Once you can't get sufficiently drunk to forget death, you might as well get sober. I never sent you that book because after filling it with dried flowers I thought, shit, what's her husband going to think?

The wooden coffins (they put you in a container!) remind me of Dorothy Day. There is a certain rush now, to get it all out there. Fire doesn't scare me so much since once the body stops, I'm going to be elsewhere. Dancing maybe!

Well, probably not. One studies the reverential silence to no avail. I'm bent on Heaven, despite my proclivity for being an asshole. You do what you can and then just wait.

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