Ghost stories
Stolen Stoli from Dad’s curio
Presidential candidate photo op holding Baby Beluga
Raffi Tevas and Hawaiian print shirts save the world!
Remember the time I built a beach hut
using nothing but wizard staffs for
construction material?
The narwhals dug it,
I’m thinking their blessing carries over, right?
Yes?
Cool,
I still got that going for me
The stars? Remember the stars?
All the stars in the sky spy on me at night.
I mean,
why do you think there are so many stars?
It takes more than an army to patrol my night moves:
1. I tackle middle linebackers.
2. I picture tangible things as imaginary objects.
3. I make blanket statements when I am freezing
a. or if I feel like being a jerk
But hey,
once dead,
just know
I do not wish to be buried
I do not wish to be cremated
I wish to be fed to wild tigers.
I wish to give them energy, to provide protein,
to swim breaststroke in their bloodstream
Get my corpse to the Sundarbans
amongst the mangroves
where man-eaters romp
and when you get there, do NOT pray to the forest goddess Bonbibi,
nary a single offering
Do NOT sharpen her trident!
Let them have me
Let them have me well
I wish to be tiger shit.
Pinky swear under this flashlight lit sheet
right hand over both atriums,
over both ventricles
Swear on this Stoli-high that
you
You
YOU
will
make it
so
I wish to be tiger shit.
I
wish
to
be
tiger
shit.
Say it with me Sis’
Say it with me
Prewitt Scott-Jackson writes Dad poetry & short fiction. The University of California Santa Barbara alum prefers short walks on the beach because—and I quote—"It's really hard to walk on sand."
