Moving right along here.
I don't know, this is kind of an odd poem to read,
I'm not sure I ever read it even when it was newer.
But I think I like it, in retrospect,
because I remember why I wrote it.
The poem's called, "What the Dead Eat."
And at some point in my life, I was
listening to Henry Kissinger being interviewed,
and I think he mentioned that his favorite food was
pot roast, or something.
And I thought that a man with such power as Henry Kissinger
would probably even get to eat pot roast after he died,
and that's how this poem started.
So it's called, "What the Dead Eat,"
dedicated to Henry Kissinger.
"For centuries the dead did not eat,
but new information convinces us of the dead's only tie
to the living, their hunger.
The concept of hunger after death shouldn't confound,
nor is it mere innuendo whispered
by those who cling to the last human pleasure like an old coat
sleeve.
For the dead will tell you that their insatiability
is no cause for hope.
Let me make matters simple.
For those who look forward to death as a final rest,
expect a canceled vacation.
Even the most pious have turned down heaven
for a greasy leg of mutton.
Mothers do not hear the sobs of their children.
Eulogies are delivered to empty picture frames,
for all the dead see are platters of burnt rolls
and fragrant cheeses.
It is told that a certain world leader missed a pot roast
so sorely," see there it is, "that God in pity granted him
a final bite.
This is the only way the dead are
allowed to eat do, not expect this favor.
Societies have always understood the ritual importance
of the condemned's last meal, but not until now
has its futility been realized.
For the hunger of the dead is life's revenge,
and it implicates even the soul.
Many have pined away for a crust so light, a meringue so airy,
they could inspire flight.
As a whim, a few gluttons and mystics
have been excused from the Great Hunger,
a term favored by the dead over the more proper,
Reverse Transubstantiation.
They rest oblivious as tables.
Others, in false hope, take their plates to the grave,
or go out in an orgy of etiquette,
napkins tucked neatly under chins, salad forks
poised in rigor mortis.
But authorities admonish, do not ask what the dead eat,
it is too tragic."
I guess it's a Halloween poem too, isn't it?