Deathsong for Ram Dass/s Hawaiian Assistant

PERHAPS pushing 90
in a train station like Tolstoy
you/ll fall asleep
finally to final
visions of me, half a century
prior, sporting your girlfriend/s pink
Snuggie™ & twiddling
my scrotum like Conan
O’Brien/s masturbating bear
smiling secretly
& secretively
as that Waldo cartoon —
Perhaps you/ll enlarge these
snapshots to cover the largest
wall of your mansion.
I imagine you wasting 47
soundless winters
w/ a magnifying glass
aimlessly inspecting you & me
& Shane & Aaron & Shy —
The various signals
our facial muscles emit —
Empty bottles of absinthe —
A capsized Bodhidharma statue —
Your signed first edition of Fight Club —
That Christmas card
of your conehead
brother in a
fuchsia Cosby sweater
you accused me of stealing—
Accurately, if we could only agree on
the varied meanings of:

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