Whiskey Yankee Tango Bravo
hollowing it out like a mask
of sinewy tissue and bone,
and I am my own taxidermist.
I smolder within the velvet
log that is burned and cut by an adze
to float down the river of never having known.
Here is where my cranium will be carved
from a solid block of wood.
My eyes will be glass, my skin stretched tight,
hair follicles carefully glued in place.
Will my tongue rest, or will my ears vibrate
to some strange new music?
It is true that I died in that jungle
that is so far away,
blown apart as if I had actually been there.