When I have returned to dust,
recall me, but not the genuine me;
no, leave that shrinking, purple-
prosing violet be. Instead visit
the giddy governess of Cagliari,
permit her pie-eyes to expound
upon our bacchic escapades,
my shelfworn banalities
and grey-whiskered anecdotes.
She'll recount in platitudes with her
characteristic twists on them.
Arouse my drinking buddies
to spew about my pseudo-impressions.
Dig up the groundskeeper
and he'll likely kick up the dust
of how we conversed on a daily basis.
Let everyone know how I pretended
to enjoy the company of that charlatan
novelist who resided down the street.
But most importantly, tell them
about the overzealous scarecrow
attendants during Long Beach
retreats with accents as flat as tortillas,
tailored in high-strung fashions, relating
all those Sunday afternoons that I
compared notes with the likes
of Leonard Cohen, John Updike,
S. J. Perelman, and Groucho Marx
at the famous Chelsea Hotel.
Speak about my wild, unkempt
hair, garish garb and ecclectic
taste in music and art; however,
never mention in Montréal nor
in Athens that you annoyed me
on more than one occasion
with your sycophantic behaviour,
so I repeatedly kicked your shin..
When I have indeed departed,
far beyond all this earthly misery,
allow just about anything to be
said, everything  except the truth.
No one ever got to know the real me.
I was the jester of no one.
Delinquency gave me daring
on the wrong side of forty-five,
and cowardice in my greener days.
rev.02/07/08