sailin' away,
on the ship they call
mid-sized couch
from the port they call
my fiancé's living room.
when they come,
"they" being the keepers
of the faith, of historical annals
told in stiff drinks,
sweating pint glasses
and told with bloody knuckles.
when they come,
tell them i lived by the sword,
like my life was a legendary thing
in certain circles of college students
and suspicious parents.
IE, born and bred
dead by the age of 23.
tell them i floated off
into the ethereal sun drunk sky
accompanied by harp songs—
to the land
called valhalla.
a place where dad's wear moderate shorts
and sensible leather walking shoes.
where i wake up as the night falls asleep
and my last drink was warm water.
a tall tell: i drifted to the heaven,
like the fictional hebrew
in my parents anniversary bible
and my second coming will exist
only in stories, pen script.
so tell them i got engaged,
it was a week into noviembre
and i cried when it happened.
tell them to eat their fucking hearts out.
