If the Accident Will

Become a non-person.

Not many words come now.

I think of how useless death is.

And so on to infinity.

Clocks and calendars.

(I believe that, too.)

The irony is so great. 

I have this disease:

to talk and remember.

Open spaces. A trafficker

in wonderful dialogue

made in exchange for rain.

Stories on a roll

of wallpaper, I learn by going

where I have to go.

The present – short, jumbled, jangled;

how much is mine to keep?

Never say anything ever again,

except for the birds.

Source: Slaughterhouse-Five or The Children’s Crusade: A Duty-dance with Death by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Method: This is a remixed poem composed from select lines and phrases from chapter 1 of the novel. The chapter number was determined by chance that involved picking a chit from a bowl.  

Note: First published in Red Bird's Weekly Read feature.