There will be no attempt to watch a parade this year, or hear the band, or cringe to the wailing of the Nashville bound, or cower at the sound and sights of what may or may not be controlled explosives.. A year ago on the Fourth of July, I still recall the fast food supplement, the drown of caterwaul, and standing for hours, then returning home to dizziness, an aching back and an intestinal complaint that produced yet another near death experience which one day will indeed be pronounced 'blessed release' by a certified professional and then my soul can wander limbo where I have instructed it to haunt second hand book shops through the winter months and the abode of Tics through the longer days.
It is indeed a cruel defeat for me as I am currently configured, but I have
submitted my remains to the medical profession. A cadaver for dissection.
And a strange joy, an alleluia, at the idea of my remains probably bottled or
somehow inoculated against rot so that I might be cut into little pieces and
examined at leisure. However I can't help but hope my dissector will be, shall
we say less than diligent. Drop bits of me on the tile flooring, where I'll be
washed to the drain, out into the wonderland, where by some beautiful accident a
little piece of me might be fed to the young of a Turkey Buzzard. And if there
is a god, my bones will be stolen and sold to a skeleton collector who'll lose
control of his a pet Hyena.