Will

Words: “save them, for later”

Sites: various altars of decency

Reasons: Black tarred lung, alternate flavor Vernors, anxious Heart, high heights, filleting, your Hands in mine. All natural causes.

Mourners: those whose ‘I’ supersedes love. you.

Items: Tiger (once named, forgotten now, twice if so be it); Baby Blanket; Montessori reports with flying As; primary colors; from then on, per a studio-set recreation of contemporary living. A satire of intimacy. A period piece simulating reverential treatment. Revolting.

Customs: first, step. Wash hands. (Step.) Open lid. (Step.) Peer in. (Step.) Numb skulls. (Step.) Breathe deep. (Perhaps, reverse step.) Wail, and wail, and wail, and wail, and wail, until the body breaks, the skin flakes, the peerage disintegrates, the bread and blood unveils itself repackaged ad hokum, the hands impossibly synapse up for mercy like it will arrive. (Pace.) Shake hands. (Step.) Conspicuously pocket what remains.

Transformative techniques: what maximizes growth(?) Public display, if martyred. Incineration, if not already. Somewhere in-between, in full-soiled nudity, hidden off where it’s unlikelily possible to traumatize, to rattle without remove — so to he, so unto you, supposed Chosen. The circle, and that.

Or maybe there’s another way. Truly, it’s up to Paul; the apostles as headcanoned by burgeoning capitalist vintners; your Flanderized old God in search of same. My hands are decaying. Remember?