Alfred Jarry

For years I have known, always,
that I would be called upon to say
exactly what I meant when I said
such and such or so and so. When I
muttered under my breath in a bar
at closing – demolish the ruins
themselves – I was not seeking
silence applause, or a mediocre death,
nor was I measuring our distance
from God. Or the absolute weight
of water, especially on those disposed
towards heavier liquids. I am the light
from a world within, and my death
will be a mummified mystery
of transformations and debris.
I am resisting the urge to become memory,
my own or in the woven brain-baskets
others wear in their heads. It eludes me.
And the applause that thunders mistakes me
for music, or light, or a stuffed reptile.
An inexhaustible beauty is no excuse to die.
“I am dying. Please . . . . bring me a toothpick.”

 

***

Richard Weaver resides in Baltimore City where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, and acts as Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit College. He is the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press).

 

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