|From||Lilledeshan Bose <firstname.lastname@example.org>|
|to||M*** P*** <email@example.com>|
|date||Sun, Apr 5, 2009 at 10:13 AM|
|subject||ReMIX: my poim|
A Death in the MP Braintrust, Co.
A thief bites his upper lip
Trying to melt in the shadows
while delivering a night stand decorated with 72 red roses
into the funeral parlor where I lie.
It’s a guerilla mission,
dropped onto his lap by my fearful lover,
one who knows that big gestures, no matter how phony,
will eventually get told as myth
by someone who will worry
about the need
for love and loss.
The thief’s next mission
will be bigger, grander.
Ghosts will watch
as he scales walls, zipline furiously across buildings and trees
Miss windows for chimneys, tunnels and air vents
Sneak in love letters of forgiveness on stationary;
Jewelry encrusted slippers from China;
A magician capable of making a casket
(with a body in it) disappear.
If I were alive, I would applaud:
the thief tiptoes
across pools of Manila scenesters
Fake Prada bags housing yeyo and half-roaches,
fiddling with their iPhones, texting their drivers to pick them up.
Unseen, he passes sycophants and third cousins,
who’ve all come to pay their respects
to a woman they barely knew,
and only remember in vague terms:
lipad, hardcore, writer.
But I am cold and dead. And the blooms,
dysmenorrhea-red and heavily scented,
are delivered unnoticed by no one,
not even ghosts.
On Sat, Apr 4, 2009 at 1:04 PM, M*** P*** <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
to the chairman of my brain trust,