Bury me in New Orleans

At a recently divorced friend's birthday, over eggplant parmesean & sparkling water, their grandmother regailed us with stories of her visit to New Orleans. What stuck in her mind more than the architecture or the people was what they did with their dead. Y'know they don't bury their dead the way we do. They bury their departed on mounds of earth, so they don't float away. I imagined four in the morning, when there's only the vicious lying in wait or the homeless or the hopelessly in love left on the streets, that the dead walk the city in a daze, shake branches and manipulate breezes to chill the living with their memories of what their New Orleans used to be. I imagine they dance on streetlamps & moon the public servants who patrol the parks collecting trash. I imagine that the inhabitants retired by time, hit & runs, bar brawls gone wrong & broken hearts congregate near fountains & give speeches on how they ought to reclaim their lost cities. They can never come to a concensus because each city they remember cannot recognize its sister reality. I would be so bored to be buried in some suburban nursing home for the expired, extinguished. That silence, that everlasting silence must be what produces such violent spirits. Play Dixieland jazz on my death-day & the Blues on my Birthday. Make an awful racket. Bury me in New Orleans & lay travel guides & trip planners, political poetry & the World News section on my grave. I want to remain involved, up to date. Bury me so I too rest at your eye level, able to walk the streets of someone else's city. Visit me with stories of exuberance, of love & loss, of everything that will remind me what it means to die, to live.