The Way I Die

The way I die is two taps to the head, stuffed in the trunk of a rental sedan, my body set on fire.  The way I die is both arms broken, both legs broken, tossed off a cigarette boat in the middle of Lake Michigan, bricks in my pockets to weigh down the corpse.  The way I die is acid in a bathtub, pushed out of an airplane, strung up and gutted in an old textile warehouse in Boston. My name is Copeland.  My name is Columbus. The way I die is a shotgun in my mouth, my finger on the trigger.