I Want to be a Dead Poet
by Neeli Cherkovski
I Want to be a Dead Poet
for Senol Erdogan
I want to be a dead poet
alive beyond life
sitting at a corner table
in our neighborhood café
like Paul Verlaine
sipping absinthe on a warm
and rapturous summer’s day
I want to walk with Dante
on his journey through hell
we stop for a picnic with Mrs. Satan
who brings fried chicken
and potato salad, a cold cruel wind
climbs Tamalpais as we eat
I want to be a dead poet
and learn how to speak the great
languages of the world
from Urdu to Bangla
a man of mountain words
and desert commas
a brick man and a birch poet
are the trees violent
or violet today?
do you find
a distant planet
where violins fall
like rain?
I’m tired of being an old man
feet ache, knees weak
they are taking away my license
to drive
rain threatens our beloved town
I’ll stand, arms outspread
I want to be a dead poet
now it is 5 am
I grow frailer by the minute
yet life is good
I love breathing
every minute counts
love is a pain in the ass
but we fall for it
we look like reindeer
and our hearts beat like
hedgehogs
oh to be a dead poet
beloved in eternity
last week I walked
with my partner
in the deer park
we fed rabbits and
waved to the baboons
I saw two doves
eating sugar from
the hands of Gautama
next week I’ll climb
the mountain
to probe sturdy junipers
where snow is like ash
purple lichen clinches
obdurate rock
I would become sainted
and wear a name–tag
at the literary convention
I want to be a dead poet
because nothing else matters
life depends on such a state
I’ll count butterflies
in the world to come
eat sounds of drummers
until stones are lit
like Roman candles
I want to take one last drive
on Funston Beach
stroll the cliff with Orion
who carries our planet
I need you, your love, your
poisoned brain, skeleton
keys and dust
of Oklahoma clinging
to my skin
I want to be a dead poet
and drink till my eyes spin
in a favorite dive
with Jack and Jill
far into the night
I hope to meet you on a
star when winter dies
in my arms and you are witness
to a descending goddess,
our ancient and inhuman sun
rising and sleeping for
billions of years, tickling our
cemetery dreams
trees giggle
flowers wear party hats —
death is proud and primitive
my dogs will wag their tails
when I’m dead, Comet, Cosmo,
Orion, come along, jump
into my arms, bring
a weapon of leaves scattered
on the grass
I want to sing for cosmic rust
and ride a comet into the heart
of our lonely bed
where, propped by a pillow,
I’ll be eager to sleep