Whatever

by Chris Butler

I’m an attendee
at my own church funeral,
in a black casket,

just some resident
in the conceived precedent
to those before us,

as the acquitter
towards what life often offered.

Whisper whatever.

I’m the ghost writer,
obituary writing
on the date of birth,

habitually
smoking dope marijuana,
until I want to

feel never better,

but since the grass grows
greenest on the septic tank,
I’m gay for rainbows!