…A barrage of words-I’m hit! The Rain Dance Kid goes down. Pellets pick at my skin, I bleed alpha bytes. I scream, Medic! Passersby shape shift into onlookers; onlookers become Good Advice Samaritans: They talk at me. They throw words on my wounds. I scream bloody murder and they hand me a book by James Patterson. I want to kill them, choke the words out of them; put them in a sealed envelope to be opened at my death; a proclamation, a reading of the will; empty words for emptied life. The stretcher arrives. Where are you hit, soldier? In my dorsal fin, I say. How do you spell that? Ask the walking dictionary; I moan and point in the direction of an electronic cursor. Whaaaat..th..th..th..heeeee..daaaaaa..mmmmm..you. Okay, forget it, the electronic cursor has a glitch…hit in d-i-e-s-e-l fan, got it…get him out of here.
Who’s that? Who? The guy with the electric eels coming out of his skull. He must be hallucinating. I ain’t hallucinating, say something! At the end of the storm is a golden sky. That’s it! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them but they won’t listen. That’s because your storm is just beginning, pal. Truth? Truth. You won’t leave me, will you? I’ll be here, beyond the sunset, behind the bowling alley. What’s your name? You talk too much. Where’s the nurse? I need something for the pain. You don’t want any junk in your veins. It’s too late for that, I’ve been poisoned by words. The words were hard to swallow, I nearly choked, but I got them down-I threw up most of them or I would’ve died for sure. Tell me your name. I AM THE GREAT I AM I SEE…follow me…
Why so silent, soldier? I raise up to say my last words: I have lived a hundred lies, told a few truths; heard even less, cut me open when I’m gone, disembowel me of the word-lies, cut my tongue out of my mouth; serve it up and tell the world to eat my words. On my tombstone let it read:
I came, you spoke, I listened.
You taught me the words to form before I could walk.
10-10, I said, I am at your attention.
But, as I lie here in golden silence,
Heap no words upon my grave, shut your mouth against
my slumber, out of reach of God’s hand:
REST in PEACE
Greater words were never spoken.
What on earth are you talking about? You only have a flesh wound. It’s just your soul that’s dying. My eyes glazed over at hearing these words and I died.
Did he have any last requests? If I’m not mistaken, he asked that a dictionary and thesaurus be read at the service. A closed casket; didn’t want people to see all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. You know, he was talking out of his head. He wanted an autopsy performed, which is strange, we know how he died, but he said he wanted the world to know why. Oh, and he asked that we turn off the damn snow machine, sorry, sir, his words, not mine. What do you make of it, chaplain? Who can say? The last words of a dying soul are like the last act of a desperate man.