a gluttonous thanks (the non-vegetarian version)

On a day where meat is consumed on giant porcelain platters and we make wishes from their bones, I awake to a wild turkey outside the window of my dad’s house. It gobbles out, good morning, as I wonder if it knows my inclination to all forms of meat (excluding lamb and veal).

As a child, this holiday called Thanksgiving filled our house. Our is defined as the family that lived there that is no longer (sister, two parents, and the extension of family and genetic entanglement). The door bell rang more than it would all year and my mother would dust off the fancy dishes that were kept hidden during the remaining parts of the year. She would spend all day cooking and the food would be gobbled up in twenty minutes. Then, clean up and preparation for part two: dessert.

As an adult, my Thanksgivings have been with shared with past lover’s families, in homes I’ve called my own with those without nearby family, and most recently with my father and his new (and wonderful) extension of loved ones. Thanksgiving is about culture. Praying for the insatiability we take part in that does not exactly mirror the rest of the year. We fill our plates with various starches and meats (for me: turkey, sui mei, duck, and chicken). There is laughter and shared stories, and in my case, Chinese opera.

We explore the veins of gratitude erupting inside us. The rest of the year, we feel it, but often forget to announce it.

What am I grateful for?

When I was a child, my dad and I used to listen to old time radio shows and we’d stare at that radio as though it projected images rather than just sounds. I am grateful for his insistence on working out my imagination. Playing with the thoughts in my mind as toys. We made up stories together out loud when I was young; now, we read each others on paper or in books.

There are some days I want to put my body on this list: it remains even after throwing bricks at it, even after my attempts at drowning it. I don’t know how this mass of weight and bones and blood and bruises continues to flourish and breathe, but I am grateful for its resilience. Health (without the insurance). The ability to move and stretch and use my scars as lines to write on to replace the mourn and haunt.

Saska.

Coffee.

Peanut butter.

Windows.

Poems and black ink pilot pens and blank paper that glows once it fills with words.

Trees.

The poets I’ve met just this past year. The ones who storm stages or just whisper their language into me. The ones who break their silences.

Mountains.

I am grateful for the home I call Brooklyn. The world outside my window, which I bike toward and walk inside. I am grateful to those who throw their garbage away, rather than swatting the ground with it. The graffiti that forces me to learn another language. The bravery of those stormed out of their homes and lives from recent hurricane. The kindness of volunteers–humans who understand the power of giving without getting.

I am grateful for my dreams, which through proper watering, grows skin and cells. I am grateful for the ability to manifest what I desire.

Pickles.

Authors I have learned about through the beautiful minds and recommendations of others this year: Ariel Gore, Marisa Matarazzo, Joey Comeau, Lidia Yuknavitch, John Vaillant, Melissa Febos, Sheila McClear, Eli Clare, Vera Pavlova, and others.

Employment.

Electricity and hot water.

My mentor. My muse. My mind.

Happy Thanksgiving day of gratitude. Happy realization that thanks may be given everyday, not just the ones announced on calendars.

have you seen my ghost?

I need to know how your night began. I want to know if the bottle of vodka sat half-empty in your pink-splattered bag or if you purchased it new several hours earlier.

I still had pizza on my breath: cornmeal crust, unconventional cheese choice of ricotta, some basil, and was that sausage or ground beef? I carried my guilt of $3.95 a slice coupled with anorexic wallet and pressure to make rent in a few weeks, when I noticed you.

You had been crying so hard that your nose was runny and how could none of those police officers offer you a tissue?

I’ve had nights like that, I wanted to whisper in your ear while simultaneously rubbing your back. Nights where I couldn’t remember the 26 letters creating the lyrics to the alphabet. Nights where I woke with fingerprints, not belonging to me, on my body. Nights where slurring replaced eloquence.

I wanted to yell at that police officer: Did you ask if you could look through her bag?

Who is your emergency contact? When was the last time you laughed so hard, you needed to change your underwear? When was the last time you were sober?

The last time I used, my drug of choice was given to me as payment for dog-sitting. I didn’t know it would be the last time and maybe it’s not, but it’s been five years.

A difference between alcoholism and drug addiction:
You can walk into a store and shelves are stocked with a variety of your addiction from Spain, Oregon, Canada, Brooklyn. You don’t need to use a fake name, meet in a dark alley, purchase through a secret handshake. Liquor stores are everywhere, kind of like Starbucks.

I notice pizza sauce on my finger and if I lick it am I being gluttonous or one step closer to catching whatever disease is invisible on my skin?

Life is risky.

It is Friday night and you lay like splattered paint against the sidewalk right off W. 4th Street. Before this, I was in a small room or attic with six other supportive queers in a writing group. Before this, you were_______________________…………..