I will die enormously in San Antonio,
On a day when my poem trends
For the last time, on a day I can
Already recollect.
I will die in San Antonio
- and I won't fake this one-
Perhaps on a Saturday,
As today is Saturday in Midwinter's
Grasp.
    It will be a Saturday,
Because today I have written this
Poem, these prophetic lines,
I have been inter-dimensional
For too long, perhaps this fleece
Of flesh was meant to die here
In this verse.

    Ernest Gonzales is dead.
He beat himself up like a depressed
Boxer with an emptied punching bag,
Though he rarely fought back,
Life beat him like an ugly dog.

These are the words,
My witnesses, on a Saturday
Reading these lines, the pain
In my chest, the rain, the sorrow,
The lonely roads.....