my hair
is rainbow
it has been, on and off, since late 2016
and when it grows out, folks still compliment the colors
for being vibrant
and even
but i know what it’s like to have a
fresh dye moment
and that moment is today
and i feel
so much more like
me
i suppose i could/should write a poem
about this past pride month
and all its craziness
and what it’s meant to me…
but i think i need to absorb it
and put it to bed
[or at least let it nap]
before either of us are ready
to assess how i feel
about how this hectic
time of rainbows and shows
and running around and barely breathing
and nervousness and new experiences
and wholesome friendships
went
so…
one of these days
when it’s no longer june
i’ll write about it
trying to remember
what happened in four days
that all blur together
but also seem dissonant
like opposite ends of the piano
keys plunking notes
irreverently
like the states we drove through
were whole countries
while we tried
to grapple
mentally
and physically
like
night
and day time
aren’t parts of one whole cycle —
the world is filled with dusks and dawns
and rain sometimes falls where there’s sunshine
and rainbows can welcome
you
home
the last few Junes
i’ve been filled more
with Gay Wrath
than Gay Pride;
seeing into the system
that kills our
Black and Brown comrades
and lulls us white queers
into a false sense of security,
complicity
with a system that wants our cash
but never wants our voices
or change for our liberation,
viewing the systems:
the patriarchy,
the white supremacy,
the capitalistic [lack of] integrity,
and learning that
though i’m part of the system
i can do very, very little about it
individually.
this morning
June 1
the first day of pride
in the crazy year of
2022
i simply feel
tired
perhaps this is my
Gay Sloth month?
no, that doesn’t sound right.
Sloth implies a desired laziness
naps for pleasure
on-purpose leisure
(though i did read
somewhere
once
that sloth might have meant
not laziness
but depression–
the dread that goes into that
catatonic inability to get up in the morning–
that is the sloth i am all too familiar with…)
so perhaps this year
is the year
of Gay Sloth
of Gay Existential Crisis
Gay Over-It-All
i am still out and proud
and will give everything to help
others
feel that way too;
my rainbow hair can be your beacon
if you need one,
but rainbow capitalism has stopped
luring me
has stopped
infuriating me
and i guess i’m at the point where
my only reaction
is a big roll of my eyes
and a reminder
to actually research
Why
the first Pride was a Riot
Why
there should be no pigs at Pride
Why
marriage equality isn’t what we thought
(i’ll give you a hint:
it starts with disability rights
and ends at capitalism)
and Why
Why
Why
we do still need Pride
i know
why
we still need Pride.
go to bed late
in order to relax at least a little
while awake
(after tough, tough decisions are made)
wake up early
in order to get your spouse
out the door
off to work
(in person)
finish some chores
accomplish some goals
take care of the every-day to-do things
and then
NAP
in order to wake up
cuddled with your dog,
splashed with streaks of sunlight,
rainbows dancing all around the room
floating over your skin,
feeling like this is a Day,
not a trial, a burden, a slog
(and then,
write
it
out.)
rainbows float along the walls
from the little mechanized window-prisms
and i think about galaxy-brains
and how to zoom in
thoughtfully.
On my rooftop I see:
1. a green tree across the street
2. a match to the folding chair under me
3. a pigeon, hopping on the next roof, its eyes as red as the
4. red brick apartment across the road
5. a treeline, it might be the park?
6. a metal fence, so I don’t fall off
7. this private rooftop terrace, that my privilege helped get me
8. satellite dishes from DirectTV
9. a/c units sticking out of 6th floor windows
10. clouds and a flash of what may be a rainbow
11. my rainbow hair blowing in the polluted wind
12. no sign nor sight of a way to make this poem end
13. sounds of busses, bodega music, wings flapping, construction; scents of the laundromat around the corner,
and wind, so much wind, against my face, feeling a chill on this hot New York afternoon, perhaps//
a loud boom, a bang, was it from the west or the east?
i strain my neck over the gate, and the only answer i see
is the smell of the garbage truck, stopped on my street.
i have so many unfinished poems written
but not the stomach to stomach the rereading.
kipventures 