What Daisies Know

by John Ottley, Jr.

What is it with this closure they keep talking about?
A guy in a Batman suit stitches 12 fans in a theater
and one in the groin for good measure.
Not lethal.
The bastard needs to whimper and moan to the papers
in that stupid orange hair
for a few weeks before he’s offed for good.

And, what’s with rebirth?
One life ought to be plenty for monsters.
Especially if you have to come back as some kind of animal
and work your way up from there.
A snail should be about right for that nutcase.

No, this whole eternity bit is way overrated.
Heck, if you want eternity, look up at winter stars
or watch a frigging sunrise, man, while you’re still alive.

Dying is like you left on an errand and just kept on going.
Nobody needs to print up a bunch of posters.
Or drag the lake.
Or pay a ransom.
Or go on tv and wail brother we just want you to come home.

It’s over, man.
Done with.

I like the idea of cremation.
At least they can toss what’s left in the Toccoa River
and make some rainbow trout happy.
If you’re hung up on reincarnation
you can even fish for them later
and pretend it’s some kind of rising again.
This is my body sautéed for you, etc.

At the graveside, get out of those velvet-covered chairs
and run.
Jump the cemetery fence.
Throw yourself among daisies.
Roll over and over in them.
Hear them chuckling.
They’re gonna die come fall
and yet they’re laughing about it.

We need to know
what they know.