Birth And Death Bathe In The River Of Life.
Death isn’t what I’m afraid of.
The final moment,
when Samsara wheel stops
turning, if only
for a moment I will
be released. No, death
is not what is alarming—
I won’t see the look
on my mother’s face
as people I know speak
about the good woman I was,
am. Will always be. To be
dead means I leave others
to sift through my jewelry
boxes, attach significance
to the belongings I wore once,
twice. Gifts I didn’t part with
out of guilt. These trinkets
will be passed down to my grand
daughter on her 16th birthday
to denote her origins. Strangers
will say what a beautiful piece,
inquire where did you get it?
She will respond with pride
It was my grandmother’s
No, death isn’t frightening, a release
like an orgasm. All of this day in, clock in, tune
in, wake, be still, wake, sleep wake up, be
alert, more coffee, more awake, more, more
and—done. In a breath, a tidal wave hits the shore,
and like the wave, I retreat back into the whole
ocean, watching without eyes that rake the remnants
of my life off broken beach. Limbs and rubble strewn
Death, is not the hard part. It’s soft, gentle, holding
your breath for minutes, then releasing. Ah, no,
I’m not chilled by death
I am dismayed by the ephemerality of days. I am
afraid of the subtle slip of immeasurable meter. Once,
long ago, humans measured it with sand and watched
as it dripped poing poing! a facet not closed shut
one grain, seventy. We measure to understand
what is inconceivable
Yes, what rattles me is how fast my nail polish becomes chipped,
how quickly the hair grows from my scalp and my ends are split,
we cut and trim and cut cut it again.
Yes, what troubles me is the trash that builds
eggshells and the wrinkled thick skin of avocados
I ate it, I ate it and it’s trashed
packages cardboard boxes receipts junk
mail in my box, I delete mail without envelope
and it appears, appears, spam, again
Wasting our time in the waiting line. In the back, how long
will I be in the back of this line. The line in the airport,
the line I wait in to step out of my sandals, I wait
to see my mother’s face, wrap my arms around
her slim frame, we are both aging, we know this and say
nothing. I wait to see them again, I go home though
I am a visitor everywhere
Death is not scary, it’s the laundry
it’s washing cycling folding hanging worn sweat wadded and
washed dried cleaned folded towered and rubbled, again
we are always cleaning to be dirtied again
No, death is a breeze
it’s becoming aware of the brevity of love
that scares the shit out of me. Love,
that cheesy word we tag onto everything
we use it like designers who buy their garb from sweat
shop and sew a swoosh in
We use that bell to tell that it’s
god/sunshine/unconditional/puppy/tainted/blind/endearing/attention/likeasisterlikeabrother/
patience/kindness/one/beatleslyrics
lover & lover/ lover to friends/ friends into: don’t acknowledge birthdays and weddings.
under this one condition lover, we say, as long as I’m the only hand you hold
No, death isn’t tormenting but watching love fade is.
I have felt the wane of knot untie, seen people I loved become real to REM
They are animation replaying on repeat that time at lake when the sun set so nice, run palms
along the walls,
the inside of the brain. You retrace footsteps, envisioning their routines
"She washed the dishes
while I dried, in the
night I held her and
when she dreamed
of her father’s pass
ing I held her, I
held her and yet
I couldn’t say
I love you
though
I felt
it.
Though I feel you now, more than ever"
And now I know what the great songstresses wailed about.
There are dreams that never fade, no, not until death.
No, death doesn’t mystify me as waking from an unpronounced
vision, as though I don’t have the words for what I saw, I don’t
speak the language of sleep, no matter how much I try
to remember, it’s gone. I‐cheated‐on‐my‐wife‐and‐she’ll‐never‐forgive‐me gone.
It’s keeping my bank account above 0 between the bills thrills and The Now.
Realizing that at this rate, I’ll die middle class and grind for others
saying things like I’m doing it for the kids
which one—all of them? (all of them)
what a thin veil to cover such a dark and thick illusion.
Giving up what you yearn for
to do what is safe because, like, the system, man
it’s quitting before you start
never feeling adequate for sex for love for work for play for treating yo’ damn self
looking your lover in the eye and saying sorry for what another lover did to your sex
nah, death don’t scare me a bit
how can we be fearful of what is certain?
to live is a tax
TAX
—And I’ll have some
For all this grind my money my efforts must be used for some greater good
or
some greater profit.
And so I ask the universe
HUMAN
Who is profiting?
I know it’s happening but no one says nothing and everything spins right along.
Death? Child’s play. Given. What’s shitty is the thought of wasting “my good years” on
Instasnapchatbook reeling in an audience to cheer for my life.
No death is not what I fear in this life, it’s not doing the things I want because I anticipate
it’s lightness coming
on, swallowing what dim bit we are cultivating, hoping, relentlessly, that our fire for breath
will match that of an
endless undying sun
***