Key

The key—

So many keys!

The keys have been different throughout my lifetime—

Piano keys I’ve touched, I’ve tried

The keys, multiple keys to my door—

I have had the same two sets of keys for this apartment on East 13th for almost 9 years!

And the keys before that

And before that

Where are they now?

The most important key, I have found, though

Is my unwavering faith

My devotion to my higher power

The one who freed me from my own chains

The enemy always being me

He being the key

To my

Ultimate

Freedom—

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The Witness

Praying for death

But I think the death of the ego—

I got the *card* the other day…

The other morning

and instead of activating this paralyzing fear

I remembered that death

Is just a rebirth

A shedding of the past

The freeze or flight

The fawn

A removal of what no

longer serves me

A gentle? Actually, so harsh reminder

That I can always begin anew—

even after what seems like extreme anger and self betrayal…

And then this morning

Another glorious, simple morning

I flipped through this black spiral journal

The one I am writing in now—

And immediately saw that we both

Prayed hard for us— for sweet, sweet death

But also remembering that we can awaken

In this very, 3-D illusory simulation we call life

The veil lifting…

Each sherbet dawn a fresh genesis arisen

An ancient spell cast

Round this flesh body

Always in communal service of

The absolute divine

Even when I think I’m *definitely* not

It’s all just another anti-Kafkaesque metamorphosis

Or peeling of the eternal

Onion to my

Truest self

The purest,

quickest

Dwindling down (up?)

To my exact flower essence

In the beauty way—

This death

The witness

I watch it

Repeatedly,

separately,

Forever

Unfolding—

5 Things in a Box

Soooo.

5 things in a box, they say.

What are those 5 things?

I’m reminded of that poem, I wrote about you, Ilicia…

Where I went through your box…

the box of your mind,

the box of your soul…

rainbow colored crayons

and brightly colored hair.

Your overexposed polaroids of yonder years

and holographic pictures you have yet to take.

The last thing in your paper box, Ilicia,

is the enormous and deep, almost rose-colored vision I have of you…

body hugging tailored clothes, and tightly woven repeated textiles…

you sitting at your light table desk,

your original altar of creative work,

And then, The Children’s Place– your favorite, well-loved pattern of monsters.

I remember you saying, that particular stroke of genius carried you through,

but never was enough–

which, unapologetically, was one of many things I always loved about you

and continue to love

as I close this paper box again

of 5 (or more) things

that makes you so succinctly

and especially

verifiably

you–

My Ilicia.