There is no moment in time without expression.

It begins with a PRACTICAL need

                                                (we NEED a tombstone.

                                                 we NEED a Eulogy.

                                                 we NEED a bust for our kings, and our gods, and our dog

                                                 that got hit by a car last week.)

We NEED an Identity.

PRACTICALITY is the mother of heritage.

Heritage is the mother of tradition, and oh-are-we just so proud of tradition.

Heritage is so proud that she has a “my kid is on honor roll” sticker plastered in the window of her mini-van.

War is the abusive stepfather.

                        Drunken eyes bleeding red wine crushed from stolen grapes,

and he’s building a wall around a vineyard that was never his.

Do we still call it a gate if it never opens?

I had this dream last night that I died.

And when I work up I realized I have never told anyone how to take care of my body.

Because I had never really thought about it.

So-

To whom it may concern:

I want to be stuffed like a deceased mountain lion found on the side of the highway and put in a museum or in a glass box at the San Diego airport in that weird section in terminal 2 that for some reason features ‘indigenous’ creatures

                                    Or wherever you can get me in. All I need is a plaque with my name on it.