2007-04-04
Whither the meat? Who loved me best? Why devote time to solitude? Shall we found a colony of small animals trained to navigate the rivers in wee canoes? Shall we place spectacles on the statuary of my life? Bicycle south in my underpants? Enjoy tea with a communist? CAll a sake a snake. Deliver my heart to the organ-needer, opening a small drawer in my chest to provide scapel-less access for surgeons, handing off my ticker and oddly...once freed of the fuzz of anaestesia, the donee finds he loves the beach on a rainy day, can suddenly make pefect poached eggs, and best of all develops a hankering for corned beef despite 15 years of vegetarianism. Once installation is complete, once the new ticker thumps delightfully in the chest of a once ailing cider maker, I will die quietly and without showmanship. May they also take my eyeballls, my good ribs and tender cartilage, my always tasty bones, my lively tendons. I will know these parts are appreciated, and the secret of good poached eggs lives on.