Light as a feather

These feathers come into our lives

They drop to the ground and we catch them before they hit the pavement

Sometimes we find them on the forest floor waiting to be “saved” or enveloped in our new found love

Encased in a new symbiotic relationship

Me and you, my feather—

We often jolt our bodies back in surprise at the miracle that has floated or fallen before us

And exclaim in absolute wonder at the gift that has been selflessly given

From the bird

From the friend

From the Angel that spread her wings and allowed one light feather to drop

To me, to us, to remind us of our purpose here on Earth, I recognize a magical medallion when I see one

To Harvest, to Protect, to Invoke—

We use them in our ceremonies, our winged brothers’ feathers… thank you for your softest baby bird tendrils

Thank you for the spotted dots all a flutter in beautiful artistry

Thank you for the mathematical symmetry, the hard spine, the tough inner exterior— ?

Thank you for praying with us, gifting us, illustrating for us into the fabric of our lives and deepening the connection between our ceremony and yours…

They say the eagle feather binds us to God as he flies the highest

And here we are—

Stopping the car on the highway forever as you fly over…

Noticing the deep blue sky, the backdrop of your dance

The sun forcing us to squint our baby eyes

Not even wishing for one to fall, just total awe—

We honor you, feathers, in the way you honor and serve us…

For eternity.



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



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,


Dwindling down (up?)

To my exact flower essence

In the beauty way—

This death

The witness

I watch it





5 Things in a Box


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



My Ilicia.


I keep thinking of that song, you know

The one we keep replaying

It reminds me of a time when tunes sounded good

And you easily and breezily walk away to this place

That spot

I remember that time when I

Clasped my hands around your neck

I remember the thick smell of your sweat on your neck

And wanting nothing else

I look down in my white t shirt with the red collars on the neck and sleeve

So emblematic of the 90s

Our time

I miss it so and I want it back

Those warm golden sunsets

Of my youth

I remember one day just not liking you

Or was it the other way around

Such an awkward ending that seemed so monumental at the time

And here I am, not remembering so much of the details

It’s trauma still embedded into my DNA

Only time will tell

If this gets passed on

Once again—

The Witness

Watching myself trying to write this poem

The Witness

I recall the many times throughout this day


Attempted to

And failed at

Decoding the

Compost in my mind


I wonder if I could somehow

Add Andrew into this poem—

The one who tells me how to be THE witness

How to observe

Detached I can see myself, all my parts, the gloriously messy, wrought with metal, iron, rice and beans, yellow-stained project hallways, piss stained staircases, where no one would dare to walk or climb unless the other piss stained elevator was broken (again) and you went with someone else (or would you?— because I actually only remember ever going alone?)

Where we moved to another place in the Bronx, “safer” this time (from whom or what… myself?) but lonely, and desolate (internally), with picturesque, sun drenched horse rides, no pesky, little half-sister siblings around or even really invented of course, of course…

And then I have to stop here, the Witness tells me—

You’ve been down this wistful, “nostalgic” road before, the looping, winding trajectory, who am I doing this for? She asks,

There is no need, she continues

To show me that I am right where I am supposed to be

That I am


The Window

I have this image in my mind of our window, the window.

A picture of it too, an actual picture.

I am standing there, in front of it, the window.

It’s a warm, sunny morning

After a long, dark night of using

It’s seconds after the sun fully pops up and exposes itself in warrior pose

Bright, golden light flooding my apartment, and my face, my body

I’m wearing gray, baggy sweatpants, a tight, but loose shirt, expanded by the evenings to-do’s.

I think I was still straightening my curly hair at the time, for lack of self love

and lack of children, I’m still mostly consumed with how I look

instead of how I really feel and ways that I can change my misery to something more sun-shiny

more whole

more real…

and I remember myself looking down, walking slowly, standing slowly at the edge of the window

wanting to soak up the sun star’s warmth, joy and healing…

while simultaneously regretting and feeling guilty for all I have done in the last 24 hours….

And I somehow remember in this cycle of sunrise and sunset, that there is more to this life

that if the sun can awaken anew

so can I

even at the window

for a few, short




They say we are planting seeds

But I don’t know

I just don’t know

If the seeds will grow

If there will be enough sunlight to make the seed take root

Or water to make those roots extend… up and out through the brown, dry soil

No wet earth to make the green stalk push easily out into the light—

Have we lost our collective minds?

Scrambling for some sense of normalcy, we want that old urgency, but… we don’t?

It’s like, we want to face the sun, you know?

That sun? That big, bright, burning ball of gas in the sky— to be proud

To show our unblemished visage to that glorious star

The one who, for eternity, remains in warrior pose

So sure of himself

No questioning or empty self reflections…

And in that same way we want to bask in it…

And yet—

And yet, I still want to hide, in that earth, in the darkness, the blackest womb…

And I think:

Is it okay not to grow? What does that mean that I want to be back where I was… do I just crave the usual, predictable safety, or the warm embrace of the mother, that luscious amniotic fluid, my first feeling of true, tangible love and support?

Those petals of the mind, of the body, of the face prompts me up and out—

And I remember:

We need that sun, we need that water, I want to grow— but when? And how? Much more do I need to take in the up and down rollercoaster of a life that defies my beautiful words… that takes them all away… that leaves me sounding like I cannot write or express myself anymore… as I once did…

What have I done, petals? What have I done?

And then I remember again…

To let go…

As the petal does…

And I drop to the floor—

In that darkness

In that womb

To start anew—

Once again…

Sitting here

Sitting here waiting

Another day, another dollar they say

But I want to focus on rest

The sheer nothingness and everythingness of it

The Brooklyn apartment

Heating up in the sun

Cool “breeze” from our window ac

Listening to the soft humming of the tv

Waiting patiently

For the day to start

It already has

Oscillating between patiently waiting

And slightly less patient waiting

My small bird of a child

Comes up to me

And asks, what rhymes with moon?

And I say, soon…

We’re leaving