this is not a poem about death:
be a bird instead,
take flight, auger the wind,
bite the flesh of the night
and taste vermilion:
here, then, a list of reasons for living:
all
the moon and its soldiers in their
imperial garb so simple and redundant
oh how
to hate them is so satisfying;
a kite in the halo of
a thunderstorm,
or struck by lightning, or given
over to the ocean:
something serious, of course, a rabid piece
of child stuck up in an elm or
even a mad scientist thinking
of his dead wife and licking
glass;
or this then, even this then,
this:
to be a buffalo on the range and eating
a thousand leaves of grass
and whitman and all
mania of williams and ginsberg.
whack off the branch of a lonely
tree and keep the limb with
you and
when you step into a pond later
in the evening some years
from now
cry
as the twig drifts in the drink.
Hey guys, just read an article on David Foster Wallace. Suicide sucks, and god damn it, us writers are sensitive. It's a wonder sometimes we all don't just throw ourselves in front of a bus. But, geez! Morbid!
