if

if holding you was somethin’ simple- it would be done.

we’d become another gathering of hands , hearts,a nd smiles who found some piece of a supposed forever.

 

if kissin’ wasn’t burning in fear. agony. an’ dem thoughts known better by us. . .

if kissin’ was bein’

if kissin’ was having more than three odd bruises, shame, and lavendar baths for cleansing.

if kissin’ made us brighter- like pheonix an’/ or deeper like root. . .

if kissin’ made us another pairing of feet, soulds, and wills bound together by destiny. . .

 

if sayin’ ah miss you was greater than de thousand hurt – then ah wouldn’t wake up cryin’.

ah’d have no need ta be any color other than dat radient yellow ah began wid.

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Tony’s Poem (a reminder for a spirit who does so much for so many, for me. and for himself)

mah grandpa’s hands were hard

moved over in soil, experience,and living.

labor- ah learned from him- meant the turning of soft exteriors to callaces.

men have callaces

an ah kept dat

hurt mahself- deliberately to reach this one available marker of manhood. 

 

we don’t trust folk who give handshakes wid de same essence of dead fish

nor folk wid fake flowers

nor a person who don’t know their way round a kitchen too much. 

we good on giving interaction ta dem. 

 

men have callaces

labor means callaces

oppression an’ neglect breed rough callaces

 

your hands was soft when we first came to meet- is still soft now.

an ah- in truth- did pray protection ‘gainst someone who may be a fair weather friend.

 

sometimes rhetoric fails us an’ we have ta see folk through heart more than habit.

 

you’re hands are still soft

still young

dey hold madness like a well worn dress.

an’ dey do brilliant work- wid love and fruit

both in Babylon an’ in dream, your hands create.

dey beat at wat is.

demandin’ decency, dignity, real rights,housing, and love. 

 

you’ve got hands capable of graspin’ truth.

 

wat is known from older times is wisdom- in abundance an’ in bits

wat is know from older times is foundation

an’ base, part,

it ain’t completion.

 

we know that ta be as true as dere is sun. 

we here- becoming new ancestors- wid whole other bits

 

hands is doing. 

soft an’ hard.

 

wat happens in de dark- as voices set in on us,

de white specs tease, an’ holding arms make might desires- 

is doing.

we clasp wet palms past stomach pains

cravings

turning acids an other shadow thoughts. 

 

we become tears

older times called us weaker fo dat.

still- dey is doing.

 

wat happens when our vibrations find home an’ name wid one another

- as wat little comfort can be can be made- is

an’ we define de space we hold.

souls tickling. 

 

dat is doing

is courage

is human

is everything!

 

an’ ah is glad ta have met you friend,

dis reality is sometimes a short stop fo in a spirit journey fo real faggots, de way we is 

dis reality is sometimes showin’ us more disaster than ceremony-

cause real faggots see so much. 

we see till de only real thing is ta rip out our hearts an’ eyes an see nothing- at de ends of pipes, or tips of condoms.

 

dat’s why we do.

why we must promise ta always remind each other ta do. 

ta keep sight

our feelin’ mire is de most painful blessing we has.

 

our emotions is vast

is immense

is like de great movings-

de bring us ta wat older generations did.

we do.

our emotions, de praxis of learnin’ ta love despite wat is

an’ wat de walls patriarchy has erected, 

dat very queer thing is doing.

 

real faggots live to be any age between 1 month an’ 47 years 

an’ ah feel mighty blessed ta be here wid you.

 

ah felt softness, tears, life blood, an’ beauty after ah held your hand past introductions. 

an ah will love you always- in every dimension an’ on every moon possible.

 

an ah is grateful always-

for wat you do fo me

an’ yourself.

fo wat ah do

fo wat you’ve taught me through sheer existence. 

 

cause dats wat we do. . .

we do.

 

we is de dialectics of soft hands an’ callaces

we is real faggots, chantin’ down Babylon

wid life, action, an glitter

we is flowers

remindin’ de less enlightened wat beauty being can be

 

an’ in dat is our greatest act. 

 

in de process of simply breathin’ 

we give life beyond wat may be visible most times. 

 

but dat don’t make wrong wat is truth

learnin’ ta love all of wat we is- have been an’ will be-

dats wat we do. 

 

 

 

 

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lessons in hummin’ low

ah have no man
haven’t in a while
ah however have man friends
an womyn lovers
ah always been as lonely as watermelon.
surrounded in folk in red real life energy

ah used ta seek a him who would hum low in mah ears
place flowers in mah hair
an sing songs ta one another – bout revolution-cartoons an dreams

he’s a nice sometimes
an ah see days where we can hold on to one another
like a kind of lover holdin on ta a heart dat has been made healthy from heavy pushing by friends ta find self love

on sunny days in mah room i touch mahself in de mirror
dressed up
i pretend as if ah were performing for us. him
ah adorn mahself in minimal clothing and seek no
accolades for a beat face or overly complicated drag
ah am mahself in black shorts shorts.
a gathering of hair falls to one side- lace front well worth the coins used ta buy and continuously style it.
of course glitter is there.

ah figure
dat if he is ah
den ah am

of course ah can wait fo him
wid routines like dis
ah am all de lover ah need right night
prolly forever if he don’t show
an dat alright wid me

an ah am conducting de movings of an opening ceremony
for lovers only.

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thinking beyond victim blaming

with all this speak on the weakness of the “black dollar” and black folk’s inability to maintain “wealth” in this society i want to offer this: consider for a second what the material makings of this society are. capitalism is based on white (western) ideology and principle and i don’t necessarily wish to be a success in that manner. “wealth” is built on exploitation and destruction- in order to create monopolies, capitalist must rape natural resources and starve smaller businesses- they must also steal means of self determination from others (historically indigenous folk and women). Black folk have not been given resources or education around a lot of finical literacy- that is true. however, i want to also consider that Black folk do not and have not, historically, held money in our minds in the same way as what this society dictates. we give our last to one another in the name of community and survival. we give to our institutions sometimes more than we do our bellies because the African world view is one of unity. we are not well if the collective is not well. i think it is easy dog Black folk out or play one another- call each other stupid for not holding money as long. it’s important to look at the material facts while we criticize. 

p.s. if a people were placed into slavery, spiritually and physically exploited, and then made into “equal citizens” without any knowledge or tools to move in the same society that degraded and raped them then how could we expect them to be any kind of knowledgable about the way this shit works.

p.p.s. for folk who will say that Black folk invented money i would argue that capital is not functioning nor does it have the same mode of operation.

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20800_10151869781989778_982609632_nCrunch- de poet an de page

Grounding: Crunch is queer thought. African in spirit and free in method. Here you can stay updated…

Are you on facebook? 

wanna stay updated with all writings, creations, chapbook offerings, and thoughts? please “like” Crunch on facebook. It would help an aspiring writer get his name heard so much. 

please like, and spread the word.

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December 29, 2013 · 7:47 pm

Roleplay.

There was barely a soul in the theatre come the end of Thursday. It was always a quiet day here and i liked that. I wanted to be with myself- away from the thousands of eyes that found me in the day light. I came here to sit undisturbed and touch myself. My day had been spent in public smiling and looking at visiting white folk. I worked the door downtown at one of the largest hotels in the city. I saw them come from all around to vacation somewhere out of the way of the bigger cities- a place that was not quite big but held some kind of adventure. And they stayed downtown cause that was a place that was not as close to Black folk as others. They felt safe. I would watch them, person by person, come into the hotel. Each one of them past me with a new disgust. Some stiffened in my presence- became like boards and moved by. Even in the light of day, and with me in servant drag, They were scared. There was a strange energy in the air. It is a curious thing to observe them- walking both in fear and superiority. I was after all in servitude to them, just as my ancestors had been, and there was part of them that sat in that moment with jubilee. At the same time, they were scared, in complete terror. Most days I wanted to abandon any questioning and reach out, grab them by the throat, and kill them. . .

 

That day, a young man jumped back when I approached him. I stood with my hand outstretched, ready to take his bags from him. Our eyes found each other. He looked back with a kind of need I wasn’t used to seeing in their eyes in the hotel- it had been other places. I saw that need in the baths and arcades- in movies and theatres. It was longing and a terror more than what I found in the eyes of White folk who were not sexually moved by me. I ignored what sensation was there and grabbed his bags. There was a thought, about how ridiculous they were, dancing about in my mind.

 

I reached for my sex in the theatre and thought about robbing them blind- being every bit the savage they feared and salivated over. No more smiles- only teeth for biting. My smile had been made numb long ago anyway. On the screen, the regular mix of porn played. There were some men here. They’d hidden themselves so as to avoid being seen or talked to. I never spoke, never gave them eye contact, never invited company. There was nothing in them that I needed. We were there in a collective of silence and wanting. The only sounds were those from the screen. The action mounted. Three men took turns penetrating a fourth. If there was anything happening at that moment, it was rendered irrelevant by the screams, sounds of flesh slapping, and moans on the screen.

 

I spit in my hand- inhaling the scents- found my dick and began to stroke it. There was violence. The bottom on the screen barely seemed to enjoy himself. He sounded in pain. It seemed to be all that he could do to stay on the bed- each top pounding more intensely than the former. Something moved in me and I came to arousal- growing more solid with each movement. In the dim lighting I could see others caught in the same moment I was- somewhere lusting and loathing the thought of being a player on the screen. And why was that? What brought us to this point of wanting to pour our misery into another man in this way? Many of us had partners- woman, man and otherwise? Were they fucked like this? Were they here too, enjoying the show as we were? If Brandon was here, i’d hoped he never find me, there was no love here. There was no softness. There was just thrust- just sex.

In school, there was a boy that I would fuck like the one in the movie. We’d take turns pounding away almost crying- pushing all hurt deep. Afterwards we’d barely speak. I’d throw a joke or two, he’d laugh and talk about some girl he thought looked nice and we’d leave it there. Always, we reminded one another to be cool- to keep our thing between us. The world couldn’t know of what we did. There was nothing in the universe or in us that could bare the hatred that would bring. So, we kept it in us. Nothing in our relations lent itself to any kind of friendship beyond these sessions. Nothing developed beyond what was had there.

 

In the dark, a white boy moved closer to me. I felt him before I saw him- his energy. My hand began stroking faster. I held myself still, moment by moment, attempting to ignore him. At the very last second I turned to see him. It was the boy from before. The same boy who thought I was coming for his bag. This time his eyes were all hunger. I looked at him- his own hand reaching to grab his sex through his jeans. “I oughta rob you for real, this time.” I thought.

 

Eyes danced. A moment and then a discovery. A chill and then. . .

 

“Suck my dick.” i commanded as effortlessly as pouring water.

 

Heat and hunger. The corners of his mouth widened into a kind of crazed smile and he sank to his knees. “You want this huh, boy? You want some of this big black dick?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

I knew he did before there was speech. They all did. As scared as they were, they were also curious. In here they could get lost- roleplay. They could become submissive in ways that daylight would never condone and become what the society guarded against most- a white man in service. He gave me a slight glance. My dick waved in front of him- measuring his face in the small light.

 

“Go on boy.”

 

He began. I grew in his mouth. There was wetness streaming, pulling, gagging, and choking. He threw looks my way. Part of me wanted to see him moving up and down on me. Part of me wanted to see what his eyes held now. Was it still hunger? Was he scared? Did he care what happened to him here at the mercy of the nigger doorman? Did he want some kind of intimacy? That curiosity never won out. My eyes averted his everytime and found dissonance in the screen. He felt nice. I dug deeper with each breath- began to push his head down on me. Seeing someone requires heart. That sight requires movement and understanding- requires the emotions that bring folks to conclusions involving marriage and moving in and such. You ain’t seeing anyone in this dark. Here, there was only moisture, moans and half thoughts. Men came here to release- use and be used.

 

Again Brandon came to my mind. For a moment the White boy became him and we locked sight. He cried, bit down and let out the same sigh I heard when his favorite Aunt passed. No longer smiling, no longer wanting me. He cursed me- for using this boy, for white men, for our ancestors, and for my dishonesty. He cursed me.

 

The boy at my crotch was loosening up. He may have been losing steam. I grabbed his head again, more forcefully. He had to know that he wasn’t done yet. Seas moved in me. There’d be waves crashing soon. He choked- letting up for some air. My sex was covered in spit and lust. His sight travelled from it to my face- lusting for an expression that would tell him where this journey was going next. I could never use Brandon like this. It wouldn’t even look right, His body felt too pure to me. It didn’t trigger the same rage nor did it beg to be degraded. We were both Black men, stepped on daily. His voice just as quiet as mine- just as smothered by poverty. We knew the same notes. There was no justice for our hard work- nothing more than what we celebrated in one another. Our labor was produced jubilee for others who sat in privilege. Others, who ruled over our material lives and looked at us like beast in a zoo.

 

I grabbed the man, before me, and forced him down on my dick. I was close to exploding and only wanted to hear the sounds coming off of the porn. My eyes closed and I began the final round of thrusts. Tension mounted. The boy could barely hold on. Images of his expression, when I reached for the bag, came back more vivid. I became harder. I saw him scared- saw every pale face, every milk toned look of terror. He braced himself on the arm rests. I opened my eyes as I came. He couldn’t avoid any of it. We both were wet.

 

My core shook. The boy removed his mouth. My sex jumped in the cool air.

 

“shit!” I exclaimed.

 

I sank into my seat. He looked at me. Somewhere in him wanted to speak. I got up before he could. I wiped as I walked and placed myself back in my pants. I left before he could speak. There was nothing to say. When I got home, Brandon hugged me- probably ignoring the smell coming off of me. When he asked me how my day had been I responded with a sigh and a small mumble that was meant to sound beat but not defeated. I came into the bedroom with him after showering and we laid together- him spooning me.

 

“I love you, Eugene.” he whispered.

 

“I love you too, pa.”

 

“You off tomorrow? What do you want to do?”

 

“Lay here. Be with you. I think that I’m tired of being outside. Maybe we can go for a walk.”

 

He squeezed me and laid his head on my shoulder, giving me a small kiss.

 

“I love you.” another squeeze. Sometime later I pretended to fall asleep. I listened to Brandon float off to sleep. I let out a few tears, then turned to see him. I searched his face- leaned in kissed him and watched him sleep. There were no sounds other than his light breathing.

 

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to make history we have to stop repeating its errors

Crunch:

important thoughts for building out of Babylon.
please read this comrades work. . .

Originally posted on Kissing in the Dark...:

lastpoets

reckoning with Patriarchy, Eurocentricism, and Authoritarianism within Marxist organization and Parties

 “The main threat to humankind, the flora and fauna and our entire biosphere, is capitalist imperialism: a totally out of control, predatory, global system of accumulation and oppression that’s on a collision course with the limitations of our planet: daily devouring children, women, people of color, the poor, workers of all stripes, wildlife and the environment in the pursuit of profits.

All of our problems rest on the artificial divisions that have been engendered between the oppressed for hundreds of years: divisions based on gender, race, ethnicity, culture, geography, sexual preferences, age and otherwise. These divisions have been fostered, historically, by those who have sought to use them in their pursuit of power and material gain.”

-The Dragon and the Hydra: A historical study of Organizational methods By Russell Maroon Shoatz

“It is not the movement which…

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