You Are Not a Meme
There is a meme going around that says,
"You are not the main character in someone else's story,
you are the main character in your own story."
I disagree.
I think you are not a character. Nor a story.
This is not fiction nor netflix
nor tiktok nor copycat poppycock
Although, I am starting to believe you might be poetry
I get that few people get you
They are not equal to your complex equation
You are not the sum of your parts, nor are you whole
You are a peripatetic prophet of parabolic parables
You have more crossed lines in you than your pierced palms
And your best ones have yet to learn handstands,
or test the net in trapeze flips
You are line breaks after the stanza bonanza
allowing space to breathe in and breathe out
before the breathless triple spin
You are a meditation in escapism,
the hypnotic slo-mo tracking,
the pause before the applause,
the joy-maker in a joyless world
But you are also tears
crystallizing on your own screen
You click Share and melt into other screens
and the world cries back with you in teary-double-eyed emojis
Yet, you are not a meme, nor a loop
of screechy lip-syncs of oh no! oh no! ohnononono!
a repetitive broken record of scratched dreams,
fake filters and cringey "cute" challenges
Yet, you are the skip and the ripple,
the pebble in a twirl, a dervish dancer,
soaking up tiny pains in ever-widening concentric circles
'til all this heartache fades and just disappears
You are a wave in the time-space continuum,
beckoning us from afar, like an old friend,
greeting every ending with new beginnings, coming
even as you are going
Oh poetry, you are not anyone's toy piano,
long forgotten, or gone to parts unknown
You are the newly-discovered lost concerto,
here to awaken souls like phantom limbs,
in perfect legatos and lucid crescendos
You are the spirited turntable in the corner
that comes to life all of its own
A needle
falls
Do you hear the music?
It's our song
Let's dance
Vesper Flights
(After Helen Macdonald)
I read about how some migratory birds,
crossing vast oceans non-stop, can catch sleep in mid-flight
Just snatches here and there, and only at night
Sometimes, with one eye open to prevent collisions
Isn't that how many of us lead our lives?
Under pressure
Trusting the wind to carry us
Letting the air catch our breaths
Maybe, we just need to land and rest a bit
I left the sky because your blue was overwhelming
Yet, I still hear your cawing in the distance
this constant pecking for mealworms under bark
these incessant, annoying tweets on my shoulder
this furious fluttering, poking at my eyes,
sucking my tears up like nectar
I am my own prey now
I tuck my head under my own broken wings
and let these talons dig deep into this unworthy flesh
I am evolving, flightless
I'm more earthed now, a groundling
I'd rather crawl into my own skin than feather this empty nest
Yet, you say, it was always about me. I say, maybe
Happiness is a selfish thing with strings attached
You give in and give in, in order to receive
They take and take and take until we both break
Some gifts are better left unwrapped
They are flying lessons in paper planes
We rise and fall, crash and burn
You fight the flow then eventually learn to let go
Truth, yours and mine, like currents can part in separate
directions
Acts of faith can't be taught, they come late in flight
Being selfless doesn't come naturally to me
I need to find solace in other lost souls first
Only those who seek will be found, they say
But even amateurs can be profound
It may be a while before I can rise above it all,
go high, crest the night sky, shut both eyes
and trust the wind again
Perhaps, I'll meet you there
on mended wings
and a final whispered prayer
Crime Scene
Why oh why oh why oh why America?
Where I come from, schools are temples, education is sacred, our holy ticket
out of poverty.
Your reverence for this steely religion is not worth the price.
Your worship at this bloody altar is too heavy a sacrifice.
When all is said and done, you just have too many guns.
Amendments can be amended but wounds from burying children can never mend.
Did you not learn from Sandy Hook?
Does the “right to bear arms” mean it’s salmon season all year round?
Your children are not fish in barrels. Fired at and muzzled forever.
Gutted gutlessly. Leaving congealed entrails on hallowed ground.
Like spent shells. Chalked outlines of miniature gods.
Yellow-taped. Evidence. In ever-expanding crime scenes.
The pandemic claimed a million lives. Not enough?
Massacres were on pause. Now you rewind. Press play.
Same hollow music on endless repeat.
Thoughts and prayers, thoughts and prayers, thoughts and prayers.
You hear shots fired. Sirens. Then silence.
The world hears only the mothers.
Wailing.
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