Bury me.
If I choose to die you must bury me,
or I will strike your soul!

You must not burn my body in the flames,
You must not let the flames take me.
You must not build a large pyre soaked with diesel fuel
and tie me tightly with nylon cords on the very top
and carelessly flick a spinning burning flame at the base,
or I will tear out your living heart!

You must not lift my corpse on sticks like a dead Indian,
You must not offer me to the sun, wind, and birds.
You must not strap me to posts with leather thongs
and hang beads, feathers, and AOL CDs around painted carvings
for ants and flies, maggots, gnats, and wet rotting rains,
or I will break all your bones!

You must not throw me, weighted and duct taped, into the sea,
You must not feed my husk to the waves of bitter salt water,
You must not send me cold and wet into the drowning depths
of devouring fishes and abrasive currents and paralyzing darkness,
with my bloated white flesh floating away in all directions,
or I will drive you to madness!

Bury me.
If I choose to die you must bury me,
or I will strike your soul!

But you must not bury me in the city's graveyards.
Vile human garbage dumps, piles of rotting humans
feeding worms and trees and turning to dirt and bad smells
underground and covered with gray stones saying nothing
and trampled by noisy, stupid women carrying on for years as if it mattered,
or I will blind you!

But you must not bury me in a small country graveyard.
They are only smaller human garbage dumps with piles of rotting humans
festering in loneliness, neglect, and stupid country superstitions.
In their age, isolation, and smallness they mock one another
with tiny spiked fences to protect them from raccoons and freeways
and I will not be mocked!

No,
If I choose to die you must bury me,
and bury me proper -
or I will come back and eat you!