apologies to Jack Gilbert
Will you search for my hair?
In the drain?
Under the refrigerator?
In slashed and dissected vacuum cleaner bags?
From my silent clothes in the unopened closet?
In the soil of my re-potted avocado plant?
If not, what’s on your schedule?
Ritual self harm?
Scream therapy?
Stage dive into my coffined grave?
Renewal and refinement of your agoraphobic tendencies?
Comfort in strange well muscled embrace?
If so, I best go check into cultivating an avocado plant or two.
By the way, the word avocado has its root in the
Aztec, ahuacatl, testicle.
Will you think of the dead me when you re-pot my testicle plant?
I do know that after reading this poem, you’ll never look an avocado in the
store or a bowl of guacamole or a California roll or Cobb
salad or even the word avocado in the eye without thinking:
AHUACATL,
TESTICLE,
BALLS!
So ponder not the dead me nor search for my hair
think instead of the sweet joys I bequeathed thee!
AVACADO,
AHUACATL,
TESTICLE,
BALLS!
THE MIND ATTIC 