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
it’s always interesting to me
to see loud queers in the wild.
while it no longer feels as it did in the
early 2000’s—
where each tiny indication
screamed so loudly
but only we could hear;
where acknowledging each other
on the street
seemed a sacred secret
shared by head nods
and the rare smile
at even rarer held hands.
these days there seems to be
more queer
than not queer
(at least here, in nyc)
but there’s still a moment
for rainbow hair
and rainbow Keith Haring button-up
to share
mutual
queer
joy
from across a crowded 1 train
and be completely delighted
by each other
through eye-crinkling smiles
(the kind seen even behind masks)
and hands making heart-shapes,
asl thank you’s,
and waves goodbye.
and i think that’s
beautiful.
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.
three hundred days
not quite one year
three hundred days
far more than three hundred poems
three hundred days
a promise to myself and none other
three hundred days
a streak honestly acquired
(though sometimes through catching up)
three hundred days
i won’t get the alert until after i post this exact poem
but today
i know
i know
because yesterday was 299
i’ve been doing this whole
poem-a-day thing
for three hundred days
and i guess i can be proud of myself for that.
~~~
green around the house
green on the roof
rainbows shifting dancing swirling cranking
throughout the room
echos of classical
(some call ‘evil’)
and the cat scratching
and the fake fireplace flickering
and the humidifier humidifying
and my spouse done cleaning
so our giant table is a table once again
(and no longer just a clutter-catcher)
and though there’s still some more cleaning to do
this house really is starting to feel more like
our
home
~~~
i need a third
here
(what would a three-hundredth day be
without turning into a three-poem-day?)
but my brain isn’t in a hugely poem-izing mood
anymore
and any old poems i might insert
were either re-written there
or up here
so what else to do but
write a poem
about
writing a poem
like all my little meta-hipster-cells
want me to do
[how long is too long
to stare into space
and come back with
nothing]
rainbows
bounce
against the walls
from the double prism
in the window
and i watch the cat
as she gets
overwhelmed
with all she could chase
and i feel like i’m
her brain
catatonic
with too many
choices.
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.
i hope
when i die
the memories can be joyous
and my stuff not just stuff
and that rainbows
are the dress code
for a day
(or two)
kipventures 