I had a dream
that I was
cremating myself.
My body was there,
lying there,
on the unlit pyre,
in the way
the Native Americans
and the ancient Greeks
used to do it
or so I believed.
But I didn’t know
if anyone
had ever
cremated themselves
before.
We were on ancient family land,
and my father was there, and
my whole family was there.
But nobody was really paying much
attention.
Because this seemed
like the (“the” here sounds like “thee”)
most natural thing in the
world.
And I wasn’t scared.
I wasn’t scared – at all.
(Nobody was scared).
I remember/ed what Jesus
said.
He said:
“The one they crucified –
it wasn’t me.
It was me, but it wasn’t
‘ME.’ It wasn’t
The Real Me, Myself.
Because the real me, myself
can never be killed!
He can never be killed
and certainly not
by them.”
I remembered his words.
And I knew this was what I should do
now.
I stepped back and threw
the flames
down
onto my body
and it was okay.
Because I
was finally free.
And I watched
what doesn’t matter
burn
away.
And it burned
it burned
it burned
without pain
away.
And I couldn’t believe
(but I could believe, too)
that I was still
here, there,
nowhere,
and everywhere,
too.
Still here!
Still here!
The Drifter
Saragun Springs 
Dale, your eerie dream, as portrayed in your verse, was very self-revealing, psychologically. However, having just a BS in psych, I am only a shithouse psychologist. So maybe you should take my remarks with a grain or two of salt. Regarding your thoughts of cremating yourself, you’re likely aware, from old newsreels, of the practice of self-immolation as exercised by Buddhist monks in S. Vietnam in the tumultuous 1960s. They were protesting Roman Catholic Diem’s brutally censorious oppression of their faith. Even today, individuals taking leave of their senses or seeking to make a lethal point will douse themselves in a flammable liquid and set themselves ablaze. If cremation is in fact the burning of only a cadaver then of course no one could ignite themself as a corpse. Your poem brought to mind various tunes. Paul Simon’s haunting “For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her,” which begins with, “What a dream I had…” And Johnny Cash’s “Burn, burn, burn…” in his “Ring of Fire.” Thanks for the poem, Dale, it made my think, which maybe I don’t do enough of.
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