Halloween and the Day of the Dead just passed. These last few weeks have just whizzed by as I have been reorganizing the household and taking on several projects simultaneously. I finally have time now to dedicate an entry to those who have passed away.
My first brush with death happened when I was around four years old. I remember my mother on the phone with her sister as she was dying, and I also remember understanding everything they said before I could even put words together myself. I dedicate this poem to my Aunty Marilyn, a woman who lives in my childhood dreams.
Memories of a Marilyn
Is it almost as disturbing as necrophilia
When i say i touched her face
And played with it
Smiling like the child i was at four?
I remember scrambling with other kids
Searching for candy in the crowd
While old brown women fanned their faces
In the dry Manila heat, as if it did any good
There i stumbled in awe on a familiar beauty
Sleeping in a boxed bed
Eyes shut and lips sewn
While in the corner of my ear
I heard my mother weeping
I remember before that state
The beauty alive
Bold and cancer bald
With her white skirt flowing
In the wind of a dream
I remember the phone call before
The darkness in the light of the church
As she called out oceans away
And a whisper behind
Through the plastic in my mother’s hand
Her voice froze us with fear
Our ears burned from news of her sudden blindness
As she stumbled in the valley of shadows.
I remember a great peace
Falling over like dead weight
Placid in the aftermath of the storm
Aunt Marilyn
was hotter than Marilyn Monroe
And like Monroe
She never grew old.
In my youth I read and saw the film, The Basketball Diaries based on an autobiography by Jim Carroll. I felt a deep love and empathy with Jim’s writing and music, as many of my own friends lost their lives in my twenties. Death has a way of aging you quickly. Here’s some poetry for my dead friends.
A Basketball Entry
“Those are the people who died, died”,
I hear the chorus in my head.
“Those are the people who died, died”,
There’s a cycle of repetition.
“Those are the people who died, died”,
Faces flip through Facebook in fastened animation
Stuck on someone no longer there.
“Those are the people who died, died”,
To race against the poltergeist of white noise humming gently in the background.
“They were all my friends, and they died,”
Leonardo pounds down the door like an insane addict
While Jim’s carol hits me like a hit on a pipe of cracked dreams
And the chorus repeats like an addiction.
Phil’s heart stopped when I was still a teen.
Elizabeth flew out and broke her spleen.
Anita took something that made her blue
And these are the stories of some that’s true.
I’ll make my own song, brother.
I have my own friends too.
“Those are the people who died, died
Those are the people who died, died
Those are the people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died.”