Today I had weird thoughts about death

 
Today I had weird thoughts about death.

Perhaps it was the bleeding.
Perhaps it was the heaving.
Or maybe it was the visceral fear.

The stain on the couch points to this,
like the birth of a red black hole.

I couldn't but swear though out of breath

as I saw my funeral rolling,
as I saw my friends in tears,
as I saw the blood dripping.

The pain in the guts attests to this,
like a gash made by a sinkhole.

I didn't have the heart to tell my friends
that there wouldn't be any ceremony.
This is not how I want my life to end:
the plan is to bury myself at sea.

They sure know this isn't the first time
I've had weird thoughts about death.

Yet they may not understand as they
haven't have to bleed
for four days straight.
The twang of whiskey
a testimony to this
the old, familiar smell.

The thoughts never totally go dumb
though the clots are now down the drain
the flesh grows pale,
the mind goes numb

at the end of each day, only the pain

I shall wait for the right tide
eyeing life and sea
from their respective shore

bracing away for the last ride

trying not to bleed too much
this is not the way the world ends

it ends when I say it ends
the pain today can go fuck itself

 

As long as there are rivers, there will be libraries

 

For as long as there are rivers, there will be bridges across them.

For as long as there are bridges, there will be neon lights illuminating them.
For as long as there are neon lights, there will be moths orbiting them.
For as long as there are moths, there will be walnut orb-weaver spiders catching them in their orb-webs.
For as long as there are nuctenea umbratica, there will be entomologists fascinated by them.
For as long as there are entomologists, there will be Latin names to denote them.
For as long as there are Latin names, there will be encyclopedias to gather them.
For as long as there are encyclopedias, there will be books to explain them.
For as long as there are books, there will be libraries.

No rivers, no libraries.

And rivers are running dry.

 

Remember Ithaca

Keep Ithaca in your mind, audacious sailor,

for if the long stretches of horizon

from port of call to port of call

draw dreams and sighs alike

for if the destination is hazy

as a distant phlogistoned oasis

only a blink of an eye exists

between you and beloved Ithaca

Many before you have flocked to see her shine

to drown their senses in whirlwinds of spices,

many have thought her worthy of a sacrifice

and a promise which tides tried to break.

Remember people have died for Ithaca

knowing they should never come back.

Ithaca has become a name more enduring

than the Laistrygonians',

more legendary than the Cyclops'.

Flatten then the map with the palm of your hand

mark the place with a red cross like a treasure

remember that history, sailing and writing

are always achieved at an angle

the pen aslant across the lines

as if bent by the wind

as the ship unyielding through tempests

men carving unmatched paths on the sea

wild things of straw and bones in a firestorm

Remember Ithaca's taste of savoury figs

her smell of dark incense, her sound of oud

the touch of her dark, velvety skin

Remember Ithaca dwells on dreams

feeds on departures and arrivals at break of day

remember Ithaca harbours adventures the mind yearns for

remember Ithaca because one day, audacious sailor,

she will greet you like her conquered king

and you shall forget every other Ithaca.