While I myself do live myself simply,
I am not simply living for myself.
Living is my most ambitious art-piece to date;
to be the author of my life's story
takes a tedious amount of charging
buffalo stamina & alligator patience.
I'm making sure you've not heard a story like mine
because
countless friends, family, misfits and strangers
have lost the passion for their stories,
instead turning over
*their heartbeat
blood spilled pens
& mind jazz
slamdance typewriters*
to some schmuck to write their story
in a vacuumed & pristine chronologically ordered
paint-by-numbers cookie-cutter drivel.
I live
because
my mother ended
the chapter of her burgeoning artistic career prematurely
thanks to her parents telling her
what can you do with art therapy?
I live
because
there's something about that jazz,
& a candlelight bath.
I live
because
far as I know, my father is learning
lasting relationships of which his charming self
struggled to maintain with an in-absentia momma
that moved around to a new school each year
and father who vamoosed shortly after birth.
I live
because
when the mouth of my love
splits into a smile, her eyes
flash pink lemonade and rosemary bebop
in a way which synchronizes to my heartbeat.
I live
because
clouds, especially at dawn,
soothe and dissolve any anxieties
of the day or weeks or months or whatever.
I live
because
I didn't know the smell of cypress,
let alone cassia or frankincense
until I arrived in Toronto which has me curious
as to what other scents I have yet to experience.
I live
because
I'm not yet finished
laughing.
I live
because
words won't stop wafting and wading
around my being until I swallow then sing
their messages aloud,
on paper,
on a park bench,
in someone's eyes.
I live
because
I live.
I live because,
I live.