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---
title: "Death's trumpet"
id: deathstrumpet
genre: verse
project:
title: Elegies for alternate selves
class: elegies
order: 28
prev:
title: 'To Daniel: an elaboration'
link: todaniel
epigraph:
content: |
So Death plays his little fucking trumpet.
So what, says the boy.
attrib: Larry Levis
link: "http://michaelduke.org/2014/07/20/larry-levis-boy-in-video-arcade/"
...
| He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing
| until it gleamed like a [tomato on the vine][] that was begging
| to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.
| He stood up to put the horn to his lips, trying to imagine
| it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized how bad
| [the metaphor was][]. He practiced anyway for six hours a day
| in front of the mirror---what else to do with all the time?
| Death looked at [himself in the mirror][] as he played, the trumpet
| suspended in midair. _Damn vampire rules_, he thought.
| He was always worried he might have [missed a spot][] while shaving
| but he'd never know unless a stranger---he had no friends---
| was kind enough. Not that he goes out anyway or meets people.
| He started waking up late, staying in bed later.
| He started thinking he was depressed. He never did eat
| that caprese, and it started getting soggy, green spots
| spreading on the mozzarella like bedsores. The sun
| filtered through the [kitchen blinds like smoke][]. He had
| to get out of the house. He decided to go to the arcade.
| When he got there, it was empty except for a boy
| [with dead eyes][]. So far so good, Death thought.
| He was playing a first-person shooter, something violent.
| Death walked past him and watched out of the corner
| of his eye. The kid was good. Death decided
| to congratulate him. He had his trumpet in his hand.
[himself in the mirror]: moongone.html
[with dead eyes]: big-dipper.html
[tomato on the vine]: wallpaper.html
[the metaphor was]: leaf.html
[missed a spot]: january.html
[kitchen blinds like smoke]: what-we-are-made-of.html
|
