Wednesday, January 31, 2007


Please God, do not let them endlessly autopsy me. Let me be in death a reasonable facsimile of what I was in life, a proud member of humanity.

It's said when you're dead you're dead. Let that be the suml of me. Don't wonder what will become of me.

Why did I die? Did I die naturally or by the life-giving, life-taking knife of fatal post natal surgery? Did those invading me rob me of my dignity? In so doing, did the ensuing probe learn more than I yearn to know as I lay unprotected, injected, inspected, dissected, finally rejected for the body waiting patiently next to me?

What did my innate parts impart? My blood, my brains, my veins, my heart, my lungs, my reproductive genes? What did all the searching glean? Did surgery leave an ugly scar, evidence of events in peace or war? Will my parts remain a part of me or wind up in a jar?

Now that I am gone will I live on in microscopic history? The topic of a medical mystery?

Slicers. splicers, dicers of the flesh, be done with me. Set me free. No longer cut me, gut me, just shut me up, stitch me carefully, have a cup of brew or booze on me. Smoke your cigarette, suck your pipe, but not in front of me where I can smell or see. Nicotine was the death of me when I enjoyed such luxury.

The hour's late. My box awaits. My Master and my minister hear the eulogy of cliched praise. This just delays the ending of my days. Drop the lid. Nail it tight. Turn off the light. I have earned my right to sleep, unperturbed, undisturbed, throughout this endless night of nights.


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