The dead are lucky
My best friend died yesterday
I’m jealous
Why wasn’t I invited?
Am I not worthy?
The dead are lucky
My first girlfriend died when she was 21
I often think about her
Does she still think about me?
Why didn’t she invite me?
The dead are lucky
Jesus allowed himself to be murdered 2000 years ago
Said he would return
Why has he been gone so long?
Are we not worthy?
Probably not
The dead are lucky
We are not
An empty throne the widow alone
Sorrow for the divided kingdom
As hungry babes cry for their future
Narcissists shall inherit the cold
No one cares for their shallow remorse
Liberty exchanged for crown of thorns
North transitions South and South to North
Oceans unbound wash away the past
While the wealthy hide themselves in caves
Fitting graves
Let the stars fall from heaven
Let the seas boil and roll
Let the mountains crumble
Let the skyscrapers tumble
Let the dying dig graves
Let the hungry eat gold
and let love be—never told
To every generation that has come along after the baby boomers, I personally apologize for all transgressions against this planet. Sex, drugs, rock & roll has apparently backfired on all of us. Since no one is going to take responsibility, I will assume that role. I plan to have myself rolled in a bed of seaweed, rice, and avocado, and cut up into bite-size pieces as an offering to the masses. I hope this serves to compensate the world for the abominations of my generation. I am truly sorry for your losses.
When I die,
the stars will fall from heaven as a weeping summer rain.
I’ll be laid out naked on the dining room table, surrounded by a variety of fresh baked bread, olives, tropical fruits, carafes of red wine, and cherry pie.
I plan to spend time with Dorothy Parker and Emily Dickinson; writing prose, drinking tea and sucking the milk of creativity from their angelic teats.
all my remaining underwear shall be handed out as tissues for the inconsolable.
my hair shall be weaved into nests for underprivileged birds.
Italian sausage shall be made from my intestines and served to hungry guests.
my liver and kidneys shall be donated to the neighbor’s cat as dinner.
my remaining money shall be given to a local bee sanctuary.
all my worldly possessions shall be placed in a great bon fire. Those wishing for a token memory can feel free to jump in.
When I die, don’t bother looking for me—I’m not coming back—ever!
Just sayin’.
I awoke to serenity
and the roar of mighty elms;
whose branches tethered
one along the other
whispered a powerful secret.
Pollen laden bees
put aside their daily labors
to spread the righteous news.
But the birds took no notice.
They had heard it all before.
from “𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘋𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘯”,
Samuel DiPaola (1999)
“Part of me thinks you are perfect.
While, another part of me thinks you are perfectly dreadful!
Like aged cheese.
Great with fine wine,
but left out the morning after a party. . .?”
“So, now you’re comparing me to smelly, dried-up old cheese!?”
“Lola, wait—don’t go!
I need you, Darling.”
I caught your smile lighting up the room. A glow radiated up to heaven and you had everything you desired. I became intoxicated. . .very contagious. Happiness can be given to someone. The energy grabs hold and pulls you along with ease. I too was carried off to heaven and managed to find that special peace I have craved for these many years. Now when I need the comfort I think back to that small frozen moment in time, and know it exists in a smile.
from “𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭”,
Samuel DiPaola (1997)
She looked a little pensive
standing on the pier,
wonder of the passing boats
traveling so near.
Her clothes were shed,
a magnificent spread,
thought robin for his bed.
No time to weep,
she took a leap,
for uncontrolled desire.
Time runs out
Skin grows slack
Memories drop to the floor
And shatter
Careful
Sharp edges
Suck them up in vacuum hose
Now stuck with cat litter
I don’t own a cat!
from “𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭”,
Samuel DiPaola (1997)
Samuel DiPaola 