imagine
hanging above
skyscrapers, your toes
so near you could almost
knock one over.

-
the dead man is atop the entire world.
in his dying moments, he will, at some
point think about the world. he will remember
cities and towns and the crowds and the trains
and all the mundane things that have plagued him.
the suicide must be a hanging. all other ways are too
dirty to be beautiful. even a suicide should be beautiful,
I believe.

there must have a certain flair to it,
I believe. I often imagine
that one day, I shall live alone,
and I shall down the last reserves
of alcohol, tearfully tying the sacred
rope into a noose. and I shall cry out to
an empty home, a man lost in the world
and forgotten to everyone but himself.
I imagined that I’d die a lonely death.
But even in solitude, there is beauty.

to me, there is a certain ideal position too.
the tongue may not stick out, for it is unsightly:
the head should be tilted to one side, preferably the left.
the body should swing from time to time in the breeze.