The Dead,

never forgotten,

roam the streets & countryside freely

on November 1^st.

Some of us can clearly see who they are—

During the Hallowed time

we protect ourselves 

from being taken

from this world,

when the veils of perception

between the Spirit world & ours

are the most faint

by disguising ourselves

to be anyone else

than what we actually are—

& the Dead

want to join the party.

They want 

to be welcomed,

to be embraced,

to be loved,

to be remembered.

It’s a pleasant, 

cool November morning.

The Dead

relish being almost alive again,

waiting to sit at the family table

& to sit down at the family graves.

The living

who are brave, 

they paint their faces

& light candles,

wanting, remembering, being.

She wished she was born in September, 

crowned by Aster  

& Morning Glory, 

wearing skin of alabaster. 

But it wasn’t her story— 

Her eyes were like sapphires, 

with cosmic lights in her Afro. 

She lights up rooms wherever she goes, 

people wanted to feed upon her fire. 

But she thought herself unworthy, 

another cute groupie at the show— 

when Kool & the Gang played their hit, 

she got into it, 

swaying to the music, to & fro. 

She didn’t know  

she had the power 

to make her dreams come true. 

So come along, dear September: 

Let’s see what you could do. 

1. 

I want to die in a bookstore. 

Don’t wake me up if these volumes are dreams. 

Words are beautiful. 

I feast upon paperbacks 

as if I am eating my last meal, 

all day long, if I could. 

I don’t care if I get hay fever 

from the dust & spores of delicate archivals. 

Pass me more fabric gloves & face masks. 

Give me a comfy chair & an end table 

with lots of light. I’ll spend the night 

on my last day on Earth 

reading away, growing blissful. 

You may not notice I’ve passed on, 

cradling books upon my lap, 

my legs crossed, laying back, 

smiling, eyes still open, 

in absolute wonderment. 

2.  

My native Texan OU roommate 

prefers to die 

in a Sephora—craving 

a timely, pampered end to a brief life. 

She dreams she will  

finally expire 

after dripping wet, 

dipping skinny from the 

Nancy Best Fountain 

In Klyde Warren Park, 

then towel-dried,  

lathering her face 

with free samples   

at the Galleria in Big D 

then, the big O 

(oh, finally!!) while vibrating 

on a massage Barcalounger, 

all at once, having the feels, 

feeling so beautiful, 

cared for & relaxed 

before her final breath. 

Two baseball diamonds lay waiting

on opposite sides of the East River.

The one in LIC Queens is ragged,

unkempt, graffitied with dark lines.

The one on Roosevelt Island

is finely manicured,

like neat tiny potted plants.

They are worlds apart,

these awaiting diamonds

for Summertime players

to make their own moves

on both sides.

The Queensboro Bridge 

can hold the whole world 

at once, from all

walks of life—

we dreamers & schemers,

rich & poor

we all move ahead.

The wildfires made a soupy fog

for days—golden dal-colored;

wonder what this apocalyptic haze

would taste like,

if we were able to stand

for hours safely, breathing 

in the golden polluted air

at lunchtime?

Don’t do it.

Wear your mask.

Don’t exercise.

This too shall pass,

but it will be

a long Summer,

& Earth is becoming

hotter with time.