to the executrix of my affairs, charged with the collation of these,
my rants, ramblings, journals, theses, articles, essays, odes and airs,
do not forget to compare the revisions archived on obsolete memories,
backed up and compressed across all these terabyte-years’ drives,
where the editorial carnage of my karma, tho’ i am gone, lives and thrives.
and also ten or so bundles of envelopes, each tied with a garter or bow,
in attic box or basement bag, dusted and webby and piled with other
such bundles in different hands, with bachelor possessions stowed,
and their disparate, desperate answers, in my scrawl, elsewhere. and the photos.
yours is the hardest choice, the proverbial tough row of earth, a winding road,
to discern the truest voice, or leave them, as more fitting their objective worth.
This is actually kind of old, a spite fantasy dressed up in meter, dear reader,
better published than mutely tempting inclusion in some real testamentary instrument.