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follow the nicks and scars deep down to my roots.
tilled in poor soil with not nearly enough sunlight,
yet still I grew undeterred, unwavering.
branches outstretched far and wide like my mother arms,
there to either cradle or shade you (take your pick).
no tolerance left for inaction,
devoid of patience for justice.
the same fire raging you see before you has always burned hot beneath the surface,
always been a card carrying member of the “others” – the weirdos/punks/queers/misfits,
call us what you will, but we’re leading the charge now.
buying homes and settling in your quaint little areas of town,
and that raging fire is never going out.
bare bones in the sunlight,
fear was our chariot,
now we’re dripping in hope.
break it down brick by brick,
tears of joy streaming down your face like fresh squeezed juice in the summertime.
bury me 10 feet deep, so I can finally get a good night’s rest when it all ends.
the crowd can carry on and play numb,
but there’s no respite when the morning comes
and morning’s come.
What does it mean to be?
Sick of the same sad flow, everyday another social media post accompanied by half-hearted captions,
painstaking math executed just to capture beauty, creativity, authenticity – when none of it is truly real.
news laden with celebrity worship – I say that as kneel at the altar of a few false idols myself and bring them burnt offerings of flesh and compliments.
It’s an accomplishment just to stay afloat through this pandemic, let alone in a state where Proud Boys have stormed the capitol six weekends in a row,
In protest of nothing, if they took the time to read through the evidence.
“Anti-fascist” is a simple enough concept yet it incites fear and anger in some – confusing, since wars were fought and won to ensure the world was free of fascism.
Peek through the shades, forced to wake up early on Sundays, Navy blue dress pants and scuffed shoes,
Cracks in the tile and chipping paint on the walls are all I could ever focus on from my seat in the pews.
The cracks, the chips, are all I can see now when I close my eyes.
I blink and relief washes over me like a tidal, all-consuming, cleansing.
Safe and sound for now, but still uncertain of what it means to be
successful as another cog in the wheel,
happy in a corrupt capitalist system,
awake through the chaotic, endless nightmare that is striving for the American dream.
since the last time I posted. Despite the fact that we’re still in the midst of a global pandemic, many cities (including mine) have ended stay-at-home orders due to economic pressures. To add to that chaos, the death of another unarmed black man (George Floyd) at the hands of police recently circulated on the web, sparking public outrage and mass protests. If you comfortable taking to the streets with Covid-19 unabated, there are other ways to stand in solidarity with the cause (see infographic below on where to donate). Black lives matter.
Fortunately, I’ve been empowered with a new platform through which I plan to use to further the discussion about these and many other vital contemporary issues. As of last week, I’ve finalized a deal to publish my second novel, Wildflowers next year with NineStar Press. A book where the central character is unapologetically queer and black. As a QPOC, this project is extremely important to me. That said, I’m taking a little hiatus. I’ll be channeling all my energy into activism, promoting Wildflowers, and writing a new book.
I remember catching glimpses of it growing up,
brazenly displayed on the shelves of little indie book shops –
a title so queer and unapologetic my pulse raced.
the covers graced by models captured raw/hairy/nude and always smiling unabashed.
long before I knew I was their brethren,
they called out to me,
artists, poets, musicians, all queer men.
and now that I have grown
the time has arrived like a rite of passage,
a collection of their greatest hits living on the coffee table,
all my very own.