When i die

God, when I die, 

will I be able to fly 

above the clouds?

Will I be able to time 

travel and see myself being 

born and celebrated? 

God, what was the top

Hip Hop or R&B song 

on my true birth day? 

Can that be the soundtrack of my voyage?

When I die, will I listen to my ancestors 

and rock to their stories 

on glowing porches?

Will hours feel like milliseconds?

Will I forget about the function of time 

that the blanketed me

in scattered flaw skin

worried so much about? 

When I die, will my bladder take a chill pill?

Will I visit dreams like amusement parks,

saying “I still see you” to my loved ones

sleeping in alternate universes? 

God, when I die, will it hurt? 

God, when I die, will Polaroids 

of moments that seemed inconsequential 

reveal more in my mind? 

Like that one time a stranger

I was kind to turned out 

to be an angel?

God, when I die, will there ever be an inappropriate time 

to laugh till my stomach hurts? 

God, when I die, will you cry at all, 

at least for a bit? 

Weeping with the wilting

of my heartbeat

God, when I die, can all them songs 

I’m sick of hearing 

on the radio 

go in the ground too

and never live again?

God, when I die, what concerts 

you got on the lineup?

Can I be VIP at Tupac, Whitney, 

and Otis Redding?

God, be honest with me, no one has to know.

When I die, can you tell me 

if you were team Pac or Biggie?

Team Prince or MJ?

(I can keep a secret)

God, when I die, will it feel 

like heaven 

to forget about myself 

and worship you forever? 

Will forever ever grow old? 

Will old no longer exist?

Will I remember Andre

saying “forever, forever ever

forever ever?”

God, when I die, may I find comfort in knowing that I lived well because I gently 

never forgot about dying?

God, when I die, can you gorilla glue me

through the mysterious moment? 

God, when I die, can I be content 

with having been known 

by my people 

and disliked by some?

God, when I die, 

even if I’m forgotten 

by name 

after the passing 

of three more generations,

may my love be stubborn and stay on the earth.

God, when I die, I might feel afraid. 

I might not know to expect it. 

But maybe, I will. 

God, when I die, I want my people to throw a party, purple dressed, grateful 

at the gallery of every photo 

I annoyingly took?

God, when I die (I know this is egotistical, but hear me out), may my laugh go down in the history books?

Archive it.

Preserve it.

Give it away for free. 

God, when I die, I’ll pray for others 

to have joy with texture,

like I had, 

a cackle and a giggle

that stares down pain

and says, “You can’t shut me up!”

God, right before I die, 

can I be alive

for enough time

to pray for these things?

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