And those who read my works after I am gone
Will linger,
Linger,
Linger on
Until I am lost.

Never to be read,
But rather laid to rest with glory encompassing my bed.
Let me lay in the earth,
Give my papers back to their damp dirt.

I will not miss
What I have failed to gain.
My tombstone shall quote,
“I was famous for anonymously being forgotten.”
At least that is my wish.

Let the Brooklyn Ferry crash,
Give me acceptance to sleep in neglected ash.

Lean out and contemplate the Empire State.
After all, there's nothing else left to you.
The spider-web paths of the city
Branch out too often to form the whole
picture in your head more than a few
stems out.

Where do your lost hours go?
Is there a heaven for the good ones?
The ones you spend reading Harry Potter
in Spanish?
As if it's really so much better than reading
trash like 1Q84 or Plato's Republic
for 1200 page-intervals of excess language or
A bunch of questionable assertions
backing up logical conclusions on the most essential questions,
Respectively.

When I sit with the bright light in my eyes,
it triggers the breakdown of melatonin molecules in
my blood,
Among other things.
Will this restore my Brooklyn Majesty
in swells of lightwave tides
Or will it lack the broad spectrum necessary
to push my half-developed form out of the tidal pool
to make a swim amongst
frail men in shark suits?