EXIT LINES: Semi-official last words of verious citizens, famous and otherwise, with elaborations by D. McClellan                                                                               

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                                Rabelais, d.1555 

 I am going to seek the great perhaps

 

Fear of the hereafter makes cowards, shrinks the appetite.

I go beyond the shadow of any church, the taste of life,

like a fresh onion on my lips: a song, banging in my ears

 

like a giant’s fart. My will and testament––I have nothing,

I owe a great deal, the rest I leave to the poor.

The solace of certainty I leave to all you quaking spinsters.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

Alfred Jarry, d. 1907

I am dying. Please…bring me a toothpick.

 

You may say, the green depths of l’absinthe

have dissolved the last of my pataphysical wits––

but stop a moment to think––perhaps, in the corner

 

of my only sound tooth, remains the one wiggly scrap

of truth that I can show the gatekeeper: one so amazing,

that God must, at last, apologize for his silly ways.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                                           Dominique Bouhours, grammarian, d. 1702

       I am about to––or I am going to––die: either expression is correct.               

 

Let it be said, that as I go, I shall go as I have lived,

happy between the lines––correct in all the ways

that seem to matter. The naughty, naughty things

 

that made my life so sweet will pass the great gate,

unseen under skirts of proper length. But oh

how merrily I will––or shall––wink on the other side.

 

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

                                       Eugene O'Neill, d. 1953

I knew it. I knew it. Born in a hotel room––and God damn it––

died in a hotel room.

 

Sic transit gloria blah-blah-blah––[exit Orestes] in another fleabag,

bathroom down a hall with wallpaper that whispers failure.

Joe Nightclerk, well-known theater critic, chuckles behind his cigar.

 

My hands, twitchy and raw from re-tying the cords

of bruised lives, lie folded stiffly on bedsheets

that have known at least a hundred travelling salesmen.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                                                Leo Tolstoy, d. 1910

But the peasants––how do the peasants die?

 

Do they see the outlines of paradise

cleared of the mists that envelop my bed?

As free as I would become, I lie bound

 

like Gulliver, trussed by fame; paralyzed

by philosophies no longer my own.

O for a simple handshake with God.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                                                Timothy Leary, d. 1996

Why not? Why not? Why not? Yeah.

 

So many unlocked doors, who’s to say I can’t

open them all, Who’s to say “only the blue one?”

Unimaginable colors inside me: twirling, chanting.

 

Yellow into orange into scarlet into lilac, dancing

down the spectrum, winking into purple, then wow––

blue––deepest, coolest, blissed out blue. That’s my door.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                                              Pancho Villa, d. 1923

Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something.

 

As a man of action, fine talk is not my way.

Find me words that could ride a horse until it drops;

explode like a train dynamited from its trestle.

 

Give me speech sharp as machetes. I must off

to chew on silence beyond the dark border,

but for now, tell the crowd my tongue was like fire.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

                                                           

Marco Polo, d. 1324

I have not told half of what I saw.

 

Forget noodles and fireworks––dare to think

of dragons that swallow palaces, of magicians

who fly on flaming silks. Imagine women

 

so fair that clay armies march at their behest

across a land so vast that the sun itself

tires  on its day’s journey between borders.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

 

                                               Ethel Barrymore, d.1959

         Is everybody happy?  I want everybody to be happy. I know I’m happy.                                                      

I want to paint your universe butter-yellow.

Plant you a garden of daisies and rare radishes.

Have great chefs bring you a hot meal every day

 

with a nice salad. Flowers on the table. And when

your last call comes, I have arranged to order

three scoops of ice cream for everyone you love.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

Heinich Heine, d. 1856

God will forgive me. It is his profession.

 

I courted you, You made me a proper European:

many say I have done well at it. I come before you now

to be lifted, and if you must, cleansed, for my journey.

 

Our dealings have always been agreeable, no reason now,

old friend, to change. Death need not complicate

our simple business––we both know just what to do.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

                           

                                          Anna Pavlova, d. 1931

Play the last measure very softly.

 

Here to carry me offstage, my swan costume

floats in a twilight new to me. White, white...

and feathers...I am flying...every move,

 

beautiful. I will stay aloft, and when

the moment is right, alight to sweet cries

of brava, brava...the stage to blessed black.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                                                 Nostradamus, d. 1566

                Tomorrow, I shall no longer be here.   

 

Saturn and Mars resplendent in Leo.

The eagle sleeps, cowled at last.

A gray wolf lies with a lamb.

 

Messages arrive on a strange wind.

The eyes of the seer growed blurred ––

a muddy river now runs clear.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

                                               

                                              Joan Crawford, d. 1977

Dammit...don't you dare ask God to help me.

 

I got here on my own, hoofing and batting my eyes.

Took a new name off the rack, made it into something.

Fought every inch of the way––why start crawling now?

 

So stop trying to get me into heaven, the only people

I’d possibly know there are those brats, some agents,

and a bunch of B picture nobodies in tacky clothes.              

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

           

                                          Archimedes, d. 212 BC

                         Don't disturb my circles!

 

I will drift as a mote of light

between the noble solids of Arcadia .

It is my hour to go––but stay they must.

 

Men who come to read them will,

in time, unreel their secrets:

the gods smile on perfect numbers.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                       Jean Cocteau, d.1963

            Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk.

 It is walking towards me, without hurrying.

 

Exquisite are the aphorisms that twine the gate,

nonchalant are the newel posts and gorgons.

The poplars lining the path are like old uncles.

 

My death, in livery, advances with a carriage of straw

led by two matched mares, ethereal and thoughtful.  

He is diffident, but charming, as I knew he must be.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

                                   

                                    Lope de Vega, d. 1635

All right then, I'll say it: Dante makes me sick.

 

Among those dusty giants in the corner, his flea circus

of demons and saints still cast shadows in my chamber––

fantasies far beyond the reach of his talent.

 

What could he know of perdition? I’ve bedded hundreds

more women, scourged my flesh with more zeal than

he could ever conjure in his skinny Florentine mind.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••      

 

Wilson Mizner, d.1933

            Why should I talk to you?  I've just been talking to your boss.

 

No offense father, thanks for dropping by

but I have it on the highest authority––

the Big Guy––that the fight’s been fixed.

 

A simple toodle-oo would be a real waste, so

I arranged a ten-rounder with old Nick himself,

peddling all the hot tickets to my enemies.´

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                                                Salvador Dalí, d.1989

                                    Where is my clock?

 

I need to suckle its hours at the silken breasts

of my Gallician inamorata, ecstatic in her languor.

The key has fallen, the priest has ridden off

 

on the flaming elephant...the  contoursof the horizon

compliment my mustache. I see a velvet swallow lift the veil––

a dry world of landlocked dolphins beckons.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

                        Kit Carson, d. 1868

I just wish I had time for one more bowl of chili.

 

You never know, always soldiering,

off to the next whingding. Busy––

Navajos, politicians, Mexican dragoons.

 

A man needs some time to sort things out.

Black coffee, a bowl of cooky’s gunpowder stew,

and a pipe full of thinking before moving on.

´            •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Lewis Carroll, d. 1898
Take away those pillows.  I shall need them no more.

The looking glass is playing naughty tricks,

I see the girls grow older and they do not smile.

March Hare sniffs, the party has wound down.

 

Snark and Jabberwock fade to paper. The Queen

commands me to beddy-bye. Bright Alice, goes.

Dark Alice enters with sweet biscuits and tea.

´ •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

 

                                                        James Thurber, d. 1961

                                    God bless... God damn.

 

That about covers it––A to izzard.

No prolixity for this boy. My aunt

was hell on grammar. Say it! Mean it!

 

Nothing more needed. Life had it’s points,

but as the old bartender said, “Don’t

let the door hit you on the way out.”

                                            End