WEBVTT

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Moving right along here.

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I don't know, this is kind
of an odd poem to read,

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I'm not sure I ever read
it even when it was newer.

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But I think I like
it, in retrospect,

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because I remember
why I wrote it.

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The poem's called,
"What the Dead Eat."

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And at some point
in my life, I was

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listening to Henry
Kissinger being interviewed,

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and I think he mentioned
that his favorite food was

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pot roast, or something.

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And I thought that a man with
such power as Henry Kissinger

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would probably even get to
eat pot roast after he died,

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and that's how
this poem started.

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So it's called,
"What the Dead Eat,"

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dedicated to Henry Kissinger.

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"For centuries the
dead did not eat,

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but new information convinces
us of the dead's only tie

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to the living, their hunger.

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The concept of hunger after
death shouldn't confound,

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nor is it mere
innuendo whispered

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by those who cling to the last
human pleasure like an old coat

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sleeve.

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For the dead will tell you
that their insatiability

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is no cause for hope.

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Let me make matters simple.

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For those who look forward
to death as a final rest,

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expect a canceled vacation.

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Even the most pious
have turned down heaven

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for a greasy leg of mutton.

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Mothers do not hear the
sobs of their children.

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Eulogies are delivered
to empty picture frames,

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for all the dead see are
platters of burnt rolls

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and fragrant cheeses.

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It is told that a certain
world leader missed a pot roast

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so sorely," see there it is,
"that God in pity granted him

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a final bite.

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This is the only
way the dead are

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allowed to eat do,
not expect this favor.

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Societies have always
understood the ritual importance

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of the condemned's last
meal, but not until now

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has its futility been realized.

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For the hunger of the
dead is life's revenge,

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and it implicates even the soul.

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Many have pined away for a crust
so light, a meringue so airy,

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they could inspire flight.

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As a whim, a few
gluttons and mystics

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have been excused
from the Great Hunger,

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a term favored by the
dead over the more proper,

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Reverse Transubstantiation.

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They rest oblivious as tables.

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Others, in false hope, take
their plates to the grave,

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or go out in an
orgy of etiquette,

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napkins tucked neatly
under chins, salad forks

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poised in rigor mortis.

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But authorities admonish, do
not ask what the dead eat,

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it is too tragic."

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I guess it's a Halloween
poem too, isn't it?

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