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Description
Who knows
but that when we die
you and I will become the genii loci
of those cobblestoned streets
on the Cape Fear River,
lending a certain je ne sais quoi
to the atmosphere of fair-trade black coffees
ordered in Port City Java by college intellectuals,
to the sweat- and beer-soaked rock romances
in the bellies of converted warehouses,
to all the phone calls the one-a.m.-drinkers swear
the alcohol made for them.

Or perhaps
we will go straight to a hell
that is haven for those of us
who are said to be the reviled of God,
where the vending machines spit cancerless cigarettes,
the condoms never break,
and everyone has a top-floor balcony
above the light pollution of the Pearly Gates,
looking out to the quasi-infinite sea
of undead stars.

For now, we will live to spit in Death’s eye,
blinding him while we both find our way
to the pub around the corner that doesn’t serve light beer,
and carve new haunts
from landlocked towns stuffed with tradition,
where we re-teach each other the laughter
that serviced us well on the Azalea Coast;
and when our youth is just a memory
pressed into a photo album,
viewed with skepticism
by children who do not recognize
the images of our un-lined faces,
maybe then we will know
where people like us go when they die.

Description
Who knows
but that when we die
you and I will become the genii loci
of those cobblestoned streets
on the Cape Fear River,
lending a certain je ne sais quoi
to the atmosphere of fair-trade black coffees
ordered in Port City Java by college intellectuals,
to the sweat- and beer-soaked rock romances
in the bellies of converted warehouses,
to all the phone calls the one-a.m.-drinkers swear
the alcohol made for them.

Or perhaps
we will go straight to a hell
that is haven for those of us
who are said to be the reviled of God,
where the vending machines spit cancerless cigarettes,
the condoms never break,
and everyone has a top-floor balcony
above the light pollution of the Pearly Gates,
looking out to the quasi-infinite sea
of undead stars.

For now, we will live to spit in Death’s eye,
blinding him while we both find our way
to the pub around the corner that doesn’t serve light beer,
and carve new haunts
from landlocked towns stuffed with tradition,
where we re-teach each other the laughter
that serviced us well on the Azalea Coast;
and when our youth is just a memory
pressed into a photo album,
viewed with skepticism
by children who do not recognize
the images of our un-lined faces,
maybe then we will know
where people like us go when they die.