Celebration of the Body Univalent

 

If during some distilled hour it is proven

by a bleached coat in a blanched lab

that I am no more - and never was -

than strings, sticks, and stuffing

sloppily soldered by some hilarious extraterrestrial

gloating in their own soap-bubble of a multiverse

(marionette of a marionette…)

to be an actor cast in their silent films,

then I say this —

 

I had a damn fine time anyway!

I am glad to have been animated

by whatever imagination would deem me dreamable.

I can laugh myself through death

and, with my envelope sealed by soil,

modify the genes of some future crop

to become the popcorn of Pluto’s casual moviegoer,

year 30-something,

and so be in the hand of yet another jester

transfixed in the theater,

chuckling ’til they choke,

enjoying the joke.