After and Before

Having lived a life full of children and grandchildren, spouses and lovers, work and adventure, with enough integrity in the end to apply the vague term happiness, Chandra is strangely disconcerted to discover death does not equal non-existence.
At first Chandra assumes the windy, dark luminescence is part of the death process, until there is no sequence of events, no movement, no curiosity, and no reason to get there.
Yet Chandra remembers being Chandra, indistinctly, as if memories are dreams of time and space minus history and reason.
Chandra has a sense, not one of the five, but complete and neutral. Chandra wants to call it a feeling of the soul because there is no choice but to borrow familiar nomenclature.
The dark wind feels like enveloping water, Chandra drowning calmly without fear that time will lead to an unknowable future, or that space could propose any obstacle.
And the familiar is a cookied page haunting Chandra’s soul, filling its emptiness, blowing in the luminescence, a benign virus swirling in the water.
When the water breaks and the womb births Chandra remembers Chandra for milliseconds or millennia before the nurse slaps Chandra’s bottom, a new breath is drawn, and the memory of Chandra is lost in the after and before.

A Funeral is a Family Reunion

A funeral is a family reunion
All the elements of love are there:
Deep Memories (Anger)
Surprise (Evolution)
Empathy (Emptiness)
Regret (Desire)
Sincerity (Latent Interpretation)
Ego (Agenda)
Forgiveness (Hierarchy)
Breaking Bread (Stirring the Pot)
Compliments (Envy)
Honesty (Novel Interpretation)

By now the sadness has passed, a half-life of reflection lingers, a posthumous friendship, mortality respected.
And a moment of joy may be as simple as forgetting the petty details, or waking up in the morning, not knowing why.

One Hundred Years of Solitude

I navigate home from work all day
Move things around the yard
Plants waiting patiently
Pretending for the neighbors

The sun mercifully sets
I lock the door
Television quietly minding its own business
Books and laundry calling to me
Unaware of the dishes

I am grateful that pens rarely run out of ink
Before things get lost
Like phrases I’m enamored with
Perfectly fine words deleted
Afraid of cultural deficiencies

It’s cowardice
To live inside
Draw meaning without love
Have so much to say
As if being a member was preferable

Dreaming is an excuse
Between now and before
Intermittent story hours
Until I don my costume
After one-hundred years of solitude

Drone and Consume

Death in a world of 7 billion
Words
Drone on and on
Little pieces of property
Assasinate a Human Being

Like too many thoughts
To consume in an email
My distant Pride
Diminished Redemption
*”Tell him,” the Colonel said, “that a person doesn’t die when he should, but when he can.”

*Quote from “One Hundred Years Of Solitude” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez