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05/01/09 - (1)
A Reawakening
When he finally died, from that agonizing death, Which took him his entire lifetime to fully complete, He looked back, with a satisfied sigh of relief,
Mumbled a few humble words redolent of grace, As the Holy Ghost lowered his casket into the grave, And his embalmed corpse gave a last autonomic twitch,
Settling in for a powerful spell of eternal rest. Only, to his chagrin, his literal mortification, Merely three days into his long-awaited quietus, he awakened.
To say he was bummed out, pissed off, chapped, whizzed Would be highly ineffectual as overstatement; In fact, he was fuming, with frothing abomination, toward God,
For reneging on His promise to take him out of his misery, Release him from his suffocating humanity, Let him return to the state of nonbeing he so craved.
After all, hadn't he suffered, endured, his shabby existence Longer, by two hundred fifty years, Than anyone had ever expected, predicted?
And hadn't he abided, with a minimum of complaint? What he'd done to deserve being recalled from defunction, Forced, against his helpless volition, to rise from silence,
He hadn't the wisdom, vision, numinous intuition to say. All he sensed was that, at 325, He'd been resurrected, to function, once again, among the quick,
Indistinguishable from the youngest of them, Suffer the humiliations of man — breathing, eating, shitting — For what duration he was not told (as was the case in his first life).
Had he been able to reckon a quarter-millennium into the future, Prophesy his next death, Who's to say what he might have done? But he couldn't.
And so he submitted, grudgingly, to exhumation, revitalization, Adjusted, as best he could, to death deprivation, Stoically postponed his long-overdue slumber,
To resume his graveyard-shift duties at the city morgue, Where, for three centuries, he'd been the lead slab cleaner And where he himself had slept, daily, in vault 88.
05/01/09 - (1)
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