Where will I go when I am dead?
Will I get the chance to rest my head,
to finally find a comfort to sleep,
to make up for the lovers
I have failed to keep?

Will I meet my father at the end?
Where fragments gather and come to mend-
all of these pieces that I have been,
all broken strings, false surnames,
and sights left unseen.

Will I come to say what was never said,
or else forsake these words for your open bed?
In death, will there come a feeling I have missed,
through this fear of living,
this drunken, tearful mist?

I light up a joint on the cemetery walk,
skimming the tombstones with swollen eyes.
Whether pen or print, engraving or chalk,
will some higher truth sustain me
beyond a life of erosion and lies;

will any of these misguided words
make it through to more tolerable times?