| Sep. 9th, 2009 @ 11:09 am Ways To Die |
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By Nicholas Moore
Of all the facts that define our lives,
a doozie, surely, is how we died.
Our biography, completely condensed,
would mention how we came and went.
So, when you're doing nothing, why
not plan a peachy way to die?
Then all the people where you work
will say, "That Larry sure was a jerk.
But did you hear about the way that he died?
I didn't even know they made lobster crackers that size!"
The three most likely ways to go,
in order, are heart attack, cancer, and stroke.
Mark Twain was a guy, whose timing was on it,
was born and died with Haley's comet.
Some say Shakespeare's pen and verse
left life's stage on the date of his birth.
Thomas Jefferson, like sparks in the sky,
faded from view on the Fourth of July.
July 4th saw other presidents go:
John Adams, Coolidge, and James Monroe.
The timing can be eerie, at the ends of lives.
A friend of mine died at exactly 3:05.
This was very appropriate, I thought,
because he was really into clocks.
If you can't arrange a clever time,
there's always the glamour of suicide.
If your life is a cubicle that smells like cheese,
then why not steal a stapler and leave?
Except instead of the unemployment office,
you'll be waiting in line in eternal darkness.
There are pills and razors and guns to mention;
boys use the bedroom, and girls use the kitchen.
As Buddhist monks do, you could burn like pine,
or jump off the 'H' in the Hollywood sign.
Jumping in a volcano is memorable and fun,
or start up a cult: you could all go as one.
Russian Roulette's even cooler than smoking.
Some people die masturbating and chocking
themselves with a belt in Sydney, Australia.
The singer from INXS died that way.
But maybe suicide isn't for you,
but you'd like a modern way to turn blue.
What separates humans from bears or eagles?
Answer: The ability to die in vehicles.
If you're under the age of 24,
you're likely to be killed by a sleek four-door
sedan, being driven by a sleepy wine taster
who's drinking merlot from a turkey baster.
Your SUV just might roll over
while you talk on your cell phone, to your friend in Dover.
With airplanes, only one in a million dies,
except for celebrities, who drop like flies.
The poor don't die in private jet trips.
And they hardly ever get crushed by gold bricks.
You could sink like a boot in the watery sea,
or die on train tracks like Neal Cassady.
A vehicle's like a drug that you do,
that takes you someplace fun; then it kills you.
My friend's had his car since he was sixteen;
he told me that he wants to be
inside his car at the very end,
or, failing that, his girlfriend.
These are just some ideas to get you started
thinking about how you'd like to get martyred.
A really razzle-dazzle death
could overshadow the shiftlessness
and general melancholy tone
of the life you've so far known.
I supposed there is another way
to spice up one's biography:
You could fall in love, or part
with something safe in pursuit of art.
Instead of dying in a dazzling fall,
you could simply risk it all
for the sake of something that will dazzle on
after you and I are gone.
We want a death that we'd find strange,
were it written on a page,
but we could also live that way.
(Aug. 24th, 2005) |
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