I do not wish to utter even a single cliché until the day on which I die.

I wish that utterance to be “I did well,” or “I was very happy,” or perhaps even a cliché utilizing the phrases “well-spent” or “well-lived” or “I gave all.” I think, right now, those are clichés I can live with, even venerate.  I think, on that exalted day, I may be unrecognizable- I may celebrate cliché, I may idolize cliché, I may deify cliché.

I may deify cliché.

I do not wish to acknowledge my poem’s reliance on short, direct statements /set-off/ to abide their own lines in isolation, and therefore, within emphasized contours.  I do not wish to acknowledge repetition, ever, until you’ve forgotten.  I do not wish, much, lately, period.  I do not wish, comma, to write in a cadence that will interrupt the cliche.  I do not wish to complicate things comma or to contradict myself, ever.  I do not wish to surprise in conventional ways.

Perhaps I will be unhappy on the day on which I die, and my body’s flesh will defy cliché because I will not be satisfied and it will not have been a life well-lived.  Perhaps this realization will make me happy, as it is a cliché that does not yet exist, and I will be happy for a moment and I will complete the cliché in that way.

Yield, say I, says me. Perhaps then I need not rely on isolation /thinking/.