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 ***