Success

I found this poem laying around my drafts in gmail. I think I wrote it about 6 months ago. It is very reminiscent of my writing style about 10 years ago and that tickles me.


That lazy afternoon beneath
 the Asian pear tree out back
you told me that I
would be happy
with a job that pays decent
with a truck that starts most of the time
with a wife, two dogs and a garden to greet me at the end of a day
and that I could
       do better,
you wanted more for me-
you told me that I have gift
and pointed to the the garage full of half made sculptures
and poems written on black boards
You told me that I could be famous or at least well known and I-
I thanked you.

I thanked you because I didn't know what else to do,
 you meant that I was special
that I was a flower that had yet to bloom,
an activist yet to find a cause,
a revolutionary looking for a revolution
that there was more to me somewhere yet to surface-
But what you did was
   call me complacent
what you did was
   stand on a pedestal and look down
and here I am with dirty hands and empty pockets
 wanting simple things,
things I never thought possible at
16, just a number on a nameless social workers case load with a brand of "at risk" stamped in red,
without a family, without a home and without words for who I am-
things I never thought possible,
as a transsexual,
as a brown man without an education,
as a survivor without memories
as a writer without words,
complacent, it sticks in my mouth like too much bullshit and peanut butter,
like I sold out,
like I did something wrong
like I didn't dream big enough
and I never knew that dreams could be judged
but I have
  what I wanted
  those things that -
well, let's face it we know the statistic
People like me "just don't make it"
and here I am with
a place in the world
a place called home
and a garden to call my own
and baby, it's not complacency that you are looking at
but success,
and it's not yours
its mine
beneath the Asian pear tree, with a dying branch
that I promise to prune come winter
and there are lentils cooking on the stove
and bills that we have the money to pay
a bed waiting for me,
do you have any idea how many nights that I have slept without a bed?
No, it's not complacency,
and I may not exhibit my work at a gallery and maybe I will write letters instead of books
and I may love that beat up Chevy that starts most of the time
but please
be quiet and listen
there are blooms dreaming of the fruit that they will become on the tree
birds belting out a lullaby for the day
and our dogs are playing a game of tug of war while the sun is hanging on the horizon dead set
on just one more moment of light
This maybe your complacency-
but this is-
   my success.