hipster zechariah (poem)

Image

the prophets are long gone
our fathers, too
no one remembers where
or

when our culture met this untimely demise
with sufjan crooning in our ears
we could hardly hear the sounds
of our patriarchs
singing their death rattles

just another percussive hum
indexed to my vocoder
and i on a loop
repeating the sins of someone else’s father

staggering under the weight of
this heartbreak, my life’s work

all of the examples above
of white men gazing at their navels in the sky
— except adam, who has none
where does he gather his family’s lint?
memories are a burden, too

only steeped in irony
blanched like greens, sincerely,
can we bear another cycle
nothing lives forever but
life as art as life as art as art as art

and i on a loop
repeating the sins

and i on a loop
and i on a loop

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10-minute poem: green parrot and decaf Irish breakfast tea

household items
standing solitary around the table
placed there as we walked by
on the way to other places

now, in the cold
my fingertips tapping icily at my keyboard
i stare them down
hoping for inspiration

they are transient things
scattered starkly on a large white table
i could write this as a still life
imbue each item with meaning
or tell its true story

the bird is a whistle
a gift from a friend when she returned from the Philippines
it sounds a clear, high note
the sharp beak and carefully painted eyes are my favorite details
the shape and the colors both are comforting
it is cute,
in the way of tchotchkes and mementos
given in friendship
draped with ancillary stories

the tea is not filled with love
nor is it filled with caffeine
i brought it home after a rough grocery trip experience
during which i realized,
standing in front of an aisle of tea
that i was far too tired to be making these choices

finally i chose a box of assorted bedtime teas
and the familiar green Twinings box for the mornings
syd asked me later why i bought decaf
because everything was too hard that day
that’s why

syd’s right
this tea is gross and sad

ii.
the imaginary stories
the bird was a gift from an ex
i tried to throw it away once
but retrieved it in tears from the trash

the decaf tea
was a promise to myself
to take better care of my body
to cut out my vices
in hopes of bartering for a better night’s sleep

but both are just reminders
of all the things i have trouble forgetting
so i leave them on the table, untouched
i don’t have the heart to stow them away
nor the strength to reach out and touch them

23

at 23
i believed
that if i could just forget the taste of my first girlfriend’s lips,
i might still turn out OK

that if i could just meet a nice boy,
settle down, start a family
i might not lose my family

that wasn’t so long ago
and some days i still forget that i’ve moved past that now
i am like cotton in an overstuffed couch;
i am always coming out

when i was 23
i spent 40 hours a week with middle schoolers
who did not quite understand the violence of uttering ‘that’s so gay’
kids who cleverly told me,
‘miss, miss, “gay” just means “happy”’
you know,
i wish it did
i really wish it did

try to explain that gay means happy
to the 12-year-old kids
who keep notes on the inside of their arms
whose wrists bear the scars of tally marks
of how many other 12-year-old kids called me ‘faggot’ today

the year i was 23,
i met a 17-year-old boy named James
when he was 14, James was shoved back into the closet
by too many locker room boys

a year later,
James tilted up his chin and strode back out

two years later,
James stood in front of vermont’s house and senate judiciary
and let them know
he’d like to meet a nice boy some day,
settle down, start a family

you see, James told me,
he’s a romantic
and one day, he wants to be proposed to under the stars

and we both knew then
and we both know now
we are fighting for so much more than wedding rings
matching tuxes
hers and hers towels
— but it’s a start

and maybe one day, all of this means that we’ll be one step closer to easing the tear-jerked pain of saying, ‘I’m gay,’ for the first time.
maybe one day, we won’t have trans kids bartering bodies for rocks on the corner
maybe one day, wives will be able to hold the hands of their wives as they’re wasting away in hospital rooms
maybe one day, wives won’t be wasting away in hospital rooms
[health insurance, etc.]

i’m not 23 anymore
but my mother still asks me sometimes
if i wish i were born a boy
for what it’s worth, i don’t
no matter how fucking amazing i look in a three-piece suit

but that’s not the point
because i loved a boy, once, who wished he were born a boy
who grew up girl
but still became one of the strongest men i know
— a good man —
some little boys grow up to be strong women, too
but we have to let them grow

so many of us may wish we were born into different lives
but please
do not take that next step toward reincarnation

please
do not take the razor blade to your kite strings
i can teach you how to fly
and bridges, you know,
were built for crossing troubled waters
not for leaping into them

stay, please.
this life needs you
James and I need you
please,
stay

bridges can be so alluring
when the world is screaming, ‘faggot, you will never learn to fly’
and maybe all of this is cliche

but I want to tell you this:
It gets better.
you get better
stronger
braver
less afraid to love

it’s gonna get better
we’re going to get there
some day
stay
please
stay
turn your back on bridges, on rope, on razors, on shame

stay,
please,
stay.

you learn,
eventually,
to shield yourself from pain

your toes,
they learn
— how to curl for balance
at those moments when you are poised on the ledge
your toes
will grip
for balance,
for staying

please
draw your limbs into yourself
water the roots of your own tree
please
grant yourself permission
to nourish your own dreams
pull everything you have into the safety of your own embrace

this is hard
i know.

it is still hard,
for me,
three years after 23

how
do we learn
to let go again?

but i am learning
that i am done with shields and walls
no more
cradling my heart
like bruised fruit

no more fear
or, at the very least,
no more letting fear win

i am here
to stay

stay here with me

and if you
are still crouching in the closet
please
use that time
to find sight in the dark
because i know a boy
who’s waiting for you
under the stars

“starlight”

someone I know is dying
actually, I guess,
everyone I know is dying

is hurtling, recklessly, toward the inevitable
we all are — falling — startling one another,
in moments, we collide
when we are young, beautiful, bright

and do not know to blaze
against the dimming of our light
have not learned
that we may fade

my grandfather, now,
hair thinning back
to downy head of babes
his fingers, still,
though growing stiff with age

he curls them still
— and still holds tight

friends of mine, too,
have met with some surprise
the flickers in their flames
breathe more deeply, then
to stoke the embers of their names
burn bright, young friends

the youth we shared
the days we spent
weep not now for unsaid prayers
for years that came and went