how to die with style in poetry

if I magically knew when and how I was going to die
but couldn’t do anything to change it
I’d make sure to leave as many fake clues as I could
that it was a conspiratorial assassination
by the shadowy forces of the world
to stop me from saying something amazing

I’d start tagging the buildings around my house
with masonic symbolic graffiti
sending e-mails to myself from burner accounts
with surveillance pictures of myself at
house parties in Brooklyn with
some of the guys who organized Occupy Wall Street
along with vague threats against me
mimeographs with large redacted sections
of the FBI file my father has for
hanging out with leaders of the
Students for a Democratic Society in the early ‘70s
even though like father like son
neither of us knew much about it at the time
they were just friends of friends
we were getting drunk with but
the conspiracy theorists would never have to know that
I’d leave a copy of Project Bluebook
the government program to track and debunk UFOs in the 50s and 60s
prominently on the desktop of all my computers
I’d get half of a treasure map leading
to a stockpile of gold buried somewhere in the Mojave Desert
tattooed onto my back
insinuating that if you just lined my corpse up
with the back of the correct still-living co-conspirator
that gold out there between Boron and Bishop California
would be yours
oh God
you have no idea how well I would pretend
that I had really been up to some serious shit

years of fun for everyone crazy
from ages eight to eighty
a way to be remembered