The Perfect Poem

The future's almost over
and these are the last few thoughts
that were rattling the peace
of this lovely subterranean skull:
On the bus to the second day
of the second grade,
A tall Roman boy tore up the paper puppets
I had so sublimely colored.
It's been a long education
but it's time to go home
and I'm going to take the opportunity
to box him into heightened consciousness
toss his jewels out the window
and let him watch me infect
his sister with HIV.
I wanna camp out by my Grandparents' graves,
give the old girl the recent chronicles of the Nelsonic Empire,
and being one with Brahma maybe she'll understand why I swallowed that penny,
why I stole that tank and rampaged through New York City.
I wanna sail with that Herculean Beekman to the summer Netherlands,
order some warm blood of wealthy helots,
tell him I love him,
and keep on passing the hash-packed bubbler.
Morning will break just as the first morning,
but now Apollo is erupting in the divinity of disappearance,
and I am "cold and bony tired."
There is a simple room waiting for me beneath the earth.
And should you look into my moan,
just say, "I loved him well,"
and that'll warm my heart in hell.