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Poem

So what's the running hubbub--hot-toot's Shangri-la?
Our fear of death's gone wacko. It’s crowding up the bar.

Let's drink to obfuscation. Annihilation’s hip.
Roll out the tequila sunrise.
Go down with the black-sail ship.

But could it be, O, could it be
that we had just forgot,
or we'd missed that day of Bio
in high school's tommyrot?

At work and seeming happy,
our cells in superb supply-- 
exist but a day, others for a week
or more, then die.

Perpetual dying and birthing
is the body’s oldest art.

And so--which you is the 
You of you?

Conglomerations of cells a-croaking 
in requiem symphonies of death?
Or halleluiah songs of the lively new?
Neither or both?

Then there's considering the case of old Bob Kelly 
who, in his downward slide, one brilliant morning 
awoke to exclaim: I myself can never die!
I just change and I fly!

So when we're saddled up with terrors,
believing love is far behind, or the Blues
is all we're singing, and our watches 
won't tell time--we might recall 
that magical Kelly, busting the walls 
of citadel. And we could believe it true.

Is fear of death and dying
the most complete of any hell
we can make?

Now, enough with these concerns!
Shall we take the drink?

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