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  • an acquaintance, a well known poet,
    has suggested that upon his death
    he be stuffed and mounted and displayed
    for those who wish to pay him homage
    which might be viewed as pompous
    or obsequious, or downright crude,
    but its his funeral, I guess. As for me,
    the instant that my hand no longer
    grasps a pen in futile desperation,
    the very instant, mind you,
    that my eyes no longer
    weep for joy or sorrow or sentimental
    movies, place me in the driver's seat
    of whatever beaten-up old wreck
    I happen to be driving, load the trunk
    with dynamite and fireworks (you'll find
    the carton neatly tucked away beneath
    twelve refrigerator boxes loaded with
    rejection slips, failed poetry, and
    other testaments to stubborn disbelief
    I had no talent), and tow me and
    the steel mausoleum to the nearest
    quarry. Wait until the sun has
    blessed me with one final sunset
    light the fuse and run quickly
    to a vantage point where you can
    witness to the world that I departed
    as I lived, driving through the night
    in search of fame and glory and
    finding only flashes of the light
    fading quickly in the distance.

    © 1990 Frederick E. Smith
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