Friends and relatives of the deceased.

Brother stamen and sister pistils.

We take root tonight under the canopy of a woody structure to commemorate a
cold body.

In the 20th century Prophet Tom showed us how electric pollen moves from
place to space carrying data packets with an infinite kilobyte per second
connection to a constant floral consciousness.

Of our cold body we can say that he was trying to become a higher life

as she also was trying to be a higher life

that did not want

and was still

and knew true darkness and true daylight

He sat and didn't talk to anybody, hunched over like a houseplant, eyes
always on his computer. He's trying to get it to work.

All his old poems, documents, high school crushes and history papers are in
this obsolete box and nothing can reach them now.

His back starts to ache. His eyes start to go. Songs spool in the
background. He's hot behind his ears. His wrist hurts. His brain starts
running through his nose. Roommates pass by hailing him from far away. But
he doesn't talk to them. He dreams of communication. He thinks about
becoming an android.

His last words he left on a piece of software called Lotus Notes:

I'm not dead.

I'm on vacation.

Thanks for the flowers.

I left roses on your doorstep.

I didn't know what else to do.

I didn't know what else to do.

His mammal form finished folded like a matchbook with its head between its
knees waiting for the end to finish downloading. Instead he uploaded. His
limbs closed. His mind went away. His head bloomed.

Prophet Tom once spoke of trees that could talk through telepathy, of people
who called themselves flower people, of a city of dead roses.