Corpus

They bound my body in black plasic. Put me in the ground under 7 cubic feet of earth. I would breathe no more. They had done me in. Proverbially, I had been whacked in the most stellar sense of the word. I was not dead. Do you understand, fair reader, I was not dead. A wall had been masoned around me, but in blood I wrote on the interior, ” I am not dead, I am here, what of all of this now?”
This is the way things go, right?
You’ve been dancing for hours on the floor and I have been in this suffocating rhythm. Your manager knows nothing of the way in which they put me in the ground. A forehead grew out of my forehead. I prayed to the God of the second moon and made sweet love to fair maidens of unhuman kinds. I have fallen in love. I have fallen… pure and simple. I am not dead, although they think me so.
Uncle John died. And upon leaving his funeral an albino dear skirted across the road precariously close to our car. Jaime and I went to see a movie that night. I felt the world overturn and upheave and reveal itself to me in an instant.
This is not Georgia. This is North Carolina. Georgians think they have monopoly over this shit. Cold and grey on these dark fall afternoons. I made my way from there and then stopped as it seems ot have happened. I am not dead. The plastic covers my face. I am suffocating. Yet, I have found reason and adequate air supply to bring it all back home. Just enough to make it all interesting. Some of you will understand. You prayed for my death. I promised it by 35. But no longer. I will outlive you all out of spite, secret southern beatification, if nothing else.
Get used to the way in which I speak. I have dusted off the clothes and the awkward suit they hoped to put me finally to bed in. I am your worst fucking nightmare here to see you home.
But some will still prey.