Words about freedom, he must have said. His face
hanging limply from the magazine rack,
even after death, when all he must want
is to decompose and become part
of the next germination, grow into trees somewhere
in the southern Amazon, which we'll cut down
and turn into glossy magazines
to sell more hair product. The rounded cap
of his domed head completely obscured
by its fibers, why shouldn't he decompose
with the rest of us? Eyes glimmering,
feet yearning to feel the dirt beneath them. Stained
with words we can't read,
why can't we all advertise immortality? Something
of an echo, perhaps, something
of another lost opportunity. When I die,
cut out a picture of my face
and plaster it by the highway in the rain.
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