Musing Upon My Arrangements, Eccentrically

And, upon my Death I've left explicit directives to those whom i chose to participate in the celebration of my 'passing'. No one, i said, shall look at me when i cannot look back at them... with moving eyes. Closed caskets cost the same, it's all standard...BUT - you'll save on the Borrelli silk tie, and Gionfranco sharkskin, that i've long designated for my farewell fashion frontal, in my sterling silver box, with a swirling ball above, back-flashing, those years of platforms and Travarras, during my day's with Dapper-D, the so-called 'King of Queens'........, and when every crease and hair had to be just so..............or else! .....Things are different now. A tank top, and some denim Kleins will suit my sleep quite comfortably. Such 'grave' nonsense it be - about the cold beneath the sod, chilling my marrow... and, my God, Maria, it's only a breathless shell of my once strapping stature, [said the egotistical corpse to himself] that will everso gradually decompose. In fact, it's the thought of the bloody earwigs that makes me bristle, even now; but they too, shall pass in time and breath within the claustraphobic brass-locked pine. So tell me then, without quoting old wives: How could earths temperature be such the factor? Are these tales and ornate traditions queer our attempt to make Death less morose...? They're quite chilling in themselves, you know! The practice of pathos & lamentation may be therapeutic to those - who can walk away from that mound of flowers, expecting another joyous sunset, and back to backs of Hannity and Sustren. But for me, the recumbent in sleep, anything less than my Soul 'bove the clouds... would surely leave me for dead! ©Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR MMXVI-All Rights Reserved