I think, before I die, I’d like to live in a lighthouse,
for a while, or maybe a succession of lighthouses
(if I plan this thing out just right), right up to that point,
I guess, where they carry me out in a bag, hopefully
not too long after a final glass of something
ridiculously expensive and some final moment
of clarity where the soul and
the synapses are, at last, fused together
with the white light of universal up-
load, etc., etc., But please, no bleak burial at
sea for me, thank you, but instead,
maybe the seed of
a Pear or
Cherry
tree
sewn
up
in
my rib
cage and an
old burlap sack for
a shroud, then bury me in a
shallow grave on a lonely, wind-swept hill somewhere or
right next to a winding creek, and let the seasons
do their thing (if the coyotes don’t, first).
The White Light of Universal Upload, Etc., Etc.,
Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is Fence Post Blues (River Dog Press, 2023). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters.