your garden.

let us consider, then, the methods of poetic endings.
i've been wearing funeral clothes for seven days, waiting on a
magic number or a tombstone that, when recieved, will
suspend my disbelief in god's existence.
but there's nothing to hold in my
spirit's core but bitter nasty syllables and
cowboy dreams, the key to which lies in quieting your
conscious mind. and you're dead anyway, so
what do you care about my disbelief or otherwise? but,
i will tend your garden for you--
sit with my proverbial shotgun of wits and means,
ready to keep to keep the rabbits from the
lettuce and the vultures from the memory. i am
perched in the tree which does not exist
anymore, suspended above the hidden ant hill,
like they don't even know
that everything as it was has ceased to exist and
i alone am bearer of the garden snake that died
when they plowed the fields under for a
subdivision. (you don't know me, but i will
tear your bedrock up
off my memories.)

elliot smith.

"to vanish into oblivion is easy to do
and i try to be but you know me
i come back if you want me to."

I've been wearing funeral clothes for three days.