when I die

wear your finest filthy jewels.
brightest threads and mis-matched patterns. if i don't see polka dots with stripes and plaid -

i will haunt you. probably. most likely.

i hope to see a crowd filled with jubilation and no remorse gather around my body.
i want daisies and lilacs placed around me. in my hair, and in my hands.
barbara streisand will blast through the speakers: don't rain on my parade,
and somewhere along the edge of a disintegrating cloud i will be hanging
with one arm holding on, and my feet dangling.
i think i'll probably be jealous i'm missing my own grand event.
but maybe i'm just believing my own hype too much.