I motion to have my fingers planted as perennials
in a memorial garden, where disadvantaged school children with magic markers could scrawl their favorite rap star across the scorched text of my fingerprints, and so would wag the New Puppet Theatre of Pride and Appraisal.
I motion that DNA evidence be damned, that I be drowned
past recognition as a wet kitten, that
my head be held up high as I attempt to thread
a needle during a hurricane, that I head a committee dedicated to the end of debauchery, all and sundry,
except as it is applicable in public life.
I motion an end to everything,
except for what we can grasp, right now.
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