Jemy Francillon — First Will and Testament

I wanna smash atoms with every step of my heavenly gait as I approach the eve of my destruction. 

Gigantic, I’ll traipse with the weight of eight great apes stacked foot to nape with a cape draped over their silver backs to sneak in.

Be cool.  Relax.

Please keep your hands and feet in.

At all times it is possible leave, but you’ll never escape.

This is the twisted and blistered track of my first will and testament.

Life is the universe's most beautiful decomposition.  Your second breath begins the countdown to your last.

It only makes sense that you start rough work on a draft.

I’ll hold court, before I go, with those that would sooner leave their shot at paradise

to the toss of a pair of dice

than wander this rock never knowing of adventure or its price.

I’ll squander my stock in happy futures

cash it all in and buy a billion scissors for lips

pursed with invisible sutures.

I’ll be a purveyor of paradigm shifts

we’ve forgotten who we are

I’ll be a humanity hocker,

slinging compassion and grace from a ski lift.

When this apostle with a lost soul lets his eyes close

he sees no more space for ruminations on ruined nations

just room for elations.

When I save the world, I’ll try and play it cool, but I’m definitely gonna brag a little.

I’ll hang ten riding the waves of praise shouting “Cowabunga, I ended world hunger!”

Or something that’ll actually rhyme.

I’ve always wanted to be covered by Time magazine

but I’ve realized fifty-two issues aren’t enough to cover my maddening dreams.

I’ll need to cover time instead.  I’ll saunter into forever with a loose tongue and a leaky pen.

To have been a proper man, artist, and friend

is how I choose to be remembered til infinity's end.

So waste no space in this place for me

Pile a pyre higher than a chapel spire.

It’ll burn hotter than the pants of all the world’s liars

as I float higher and higher.

Gather the ashes and fuse them with lead

be careful now, or it'll go to your head.

Take it and surround it with wood instead.

Make me into pencils. 

Pass me out to children learning to write for the very first time, to artists, sketching just to make a dime, and to the poet, who finds playing hopscotch with words, simply divine.

I’ll be given new life.  My soul will come free with each stroke of their calligraphy.  My dream will be like seeds buried in parchment given to blossom when pored over by searching eyes.  Daughters will raise their sons to give light to their own fruit. 

Let there be sweetness in whatever they endeavor.

This is my first will and testament, a draft for my last, which upon revision will simply read:

Above all else, love.