I wasn’t present
for my ideas;
their homes rest
in someone else’s hands –

take, for example,
any humor I’ve sustained:
my mother trained me
to draw wings on my pain
and I just use stencils
from others who have retained
their wits about them,
usually before having killed themselves, and
who had the wherewithal to mention,
in the least-cryptic of ways,

that to be present in life
entails divergent thinking, being
a little bit different,
a certain type of reverence towards
humility, truth and simplicity,
and a willingness to find life’s bullshittery
a little bit uncanny, implicitly tragic,
but hopefully whimsical when spoken or
on a page,
to obscure the fact
that humans are habitually invested in
preoccupations unworthy of our attention;

that to be here at all
is a gift,
carelessly packaged,
sometimes unbidden,

and to treat it as anything other than such,
to skip suffering while it exists
within and without us
is to be human.

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