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
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-
we clasp wet palms past stomach pains
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.
dat is doing
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 like de great movings-
de bring us ta wat older generations did.
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
fo wat ah do
fo wat you’ve taught me through sheer existence.
cause dats wat 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.