soft boy #2

wake up. brush teeth.
gut tight. urge here.

hurt knee. soft boy.
new hurt. harm done.

lay down. dream love.
gut tight. can’t sleep.

urge here. new john.
teeth pressed. one falls.

no time. missed call.
missed meal. tug sex.

health check. day dream.
check in. more pills.

day three. sleep now.
slow start. dry skin.

long bath. more food.
call mom. work now.

time spent. dimes made.
harsh speak. clock out.

soft boy. stomach tight.
urge here. skin dry.

lakeside. dried tears.
new poem. old pain.

old pain. walk town.
home now. rest boy.

phone call. urge here.
choose now. he speaks.

lay down. move on.
wish peace. brown child.

wake up. work again.
push through. long day.

long day. eat meal.
eat meal. eat meal.

heal up. warm hands.
wax dry. wick lit.

place fruit. be still.
breathe deep. breathe out.

love speaks. from self.
shape self. know love.

teeth

they’ve come undone

jagged things 

once pieces whole 

one by one falling

sometimes ejected by force,

misplaced hope,

meth,

liquor,

running,

or a weighted misery.

 

ive become comfortable here

in this still death

i’ve come to know home to be a place of fantasy in our minds

co-dependence making romance out of hurt and fear.

making a routine of

first innoculation

sex, wanting, 

then explosion

perhaps some cleaning

and loneliness

 

Always loneliness.

 

We lay in pieces.

Jagged like what remains in our mouths.

 

If salvation is true. . .

if it can be really done

without complete removal

. . . then it requires mutation

and the development of superpowers.

 

i know what powers is

i harness them daily to endure

to save every life but my own

perverse

like religion

and just as contradictory 

the ability to heal worlds with loving smiles

while still unable to chew

 

i continue biting down

with hope

working on steps

and moving muscles men rarely see.

 

 

 

 

coming out

bein’ born a soft boy made things sometimes unpleasant
in secret ah held parties
“down there” gatherings of fellows lookin’ ta explore wat pleasure can be found
in giving throat
in public ah picked flowers
amid taunts an’ slaps
mah chest a target fo firing squads
mah speech in question
ah heard “man up” before it made any sense.

wat is man feelin’s
an wat about a world dat creates em’
an’ wat will it mean ta have dem seen an’ gone?
wat creature will ah shape den?

patriarchy is de though had eatin cuties while lookin at cuties
it is de thought urging conquest
seeding
an’ breedin’
he demands dat every man be mine
an’ says dat cause him is cute dem him is mine
lak slavery cattle
lak dere beauty is somethin’ dat ah have sole right ta affirm an define
lak all bodies are on auction blocks

when in truth, de fact dat all bodies is beautiful has little ta do wid me
de just are
till spirit makes em’ otherwise
an all bodies belong only to deyselves.

de taste of dis reminds me of how foul a poison it is.
it sits on mah tongue
an’ everytime ah remember
moodswings an’
spirit calls an’
maddness an’
sirens an’
men cryin’ at me cause a forced charm made dem believe love in me.

addiction
possesses
speaks fo’ itself
it don’t ask permission ta inhabit

ah wonder if mah mother’s tongue felt dis
ah wonder how other hands can hold me- if dey sense affection when it’s dere
. . . wonder if dey smell out de half truths.

sugar is a kind of meth
lak gossip
lak sex
lak money
an’ so is charity
for it distorts
lak
Babylon, an’ mcdonalds,
an’ television
an’ suddenly ah wonder where an’ why ah felt sick

on de second day
ah use to forget de lies of yesterday
de pain of dissappointment breedin’ through self hate
an’ mah body is sucked into itself
clothes don’t fit right
ah scratch
food sucks an’ folk always appear sad

ah am sad
ah want death
perhaps grand,
flowers fot only for goodbye
an’ of course horns

“ah am not sad”- ah write
ah am here, movin’, fallin,
an ah repeatedly come back
ta center, less mahself, holdin succulents as reminders
so as ta never forget dat ah too am immortal- growth is a possibility an’ regeneration a gift.
dis life- all energy an’ imagination
all a glow from sun kisses
all torn histories an’ patched families chosen

ah shake at night
am scared ta sleep sometimes
scared ta reach out fo’ help cause ah hate not havin’ complete control
it feel lak de beggin’ mah granfather warned against.
so ah self soothe wid wat tools ah have
bathe in lavender,
envoke eldars past an’ whisper apologies ta mah body
mah feet bleed blocks till
half grins, violent sex, an’ various dicks is present

addiction holds a pattern of bein’ triggered, speakin’ triggers an’ bein’ triggered

last day.
mah side pains somethin’ slight
an’ ah wish ah could hold dis always
cause forgettin’ de process indicates dat things still yet ta be learned exist
blah
mah days feel incomplete an’ ah day dream
write ferociously

ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material
ah can make mah magic material

soft boy.

wat is a heart?
hows does it move?
touch?
can it
be great enough to manifest itself like love
even when starting encounters speak contrary?

my thoughts are always corridors
walking trauma
and male shaped silhouettes
who made their own endings
from acting…

acting…
i am acting.
screaming
and begging rape
with a soft voice

“your body feels warm”
he kisses to me
for once this room is closed to the other eyes moving about
we kisses
scratches
sucks nipples
bites and makes well before another tearing.
he massages into me. my limbs can hold but feel cold
should i be a bridge…

should i decide that
then i know. i must be be
much more than carrying.

cause healers cannot heal with cold hands
and a love gained through dissonance
no matter wat other intention was present

i came here to feel something. i came here to feel something. i came here to feel something.
i came here longing for something at first physical.

“i want you so much”
our skin desires intention
and i manifest truth out of his words regardless of what their actual meaning is.
i need him to be truth speaking.
to encourage my own
to encourage a new blossoming
flowers don’t birth out of maddening craze and i have been in this one for a month of Sundays.
my spirit begs for an out
warns me of its coming death
if i am not careful i will be a vessel
hollow

our skin
with thirst, limes, sweetness, and courage
have moved over these places before
where seeing is discouraged, where we retrace the same
continuously obsessed with reworking the outcome
because we know no other way to meet passed exposed asses, one syllable smoke signals, or wanting eyes.

continuously obsessed with a world free of harm.

spirit and craze
like oil and water
originate in separate powers
sit in disharmony
things move without gravity, up walls and ah question, albiet foolishly, that if i can move past these same steps
if i can get to a point past heavy
then maybe something more can be mine
truly

an’ if pieces of mah heart are found
shattered,
neglected,
in filth,
then i ask for them to be spared of wat hurt can be added
save them the strain mah running gave.

i came here to feel something physical
because it is one of the only ways i know to connect

i see him in smiles
he offers an opening
an’ i can’t hold that real

its whimsical
a memory- an air thought
of asking to be held
a sensitivity

a space my heart knows and yet cannot discover

only evil finds itself unable to find reason in kisses
an’ its a constant undoing
to find reason
it demands great bravery of us.

an’ here i hear, ancestors
be careful young creator, we need you well enough for words

we need you well
unpenetrated
left alone
from from bad alchemy
transmuting disease.

we bout to live now.

the aids whore

she became a home made of half healing,

verbose

in patterns and speech

in the actions taken to speak to

encourage and hold others

She in her isolated misery did that to a fault

cause hands not fully warmed cannot possibly provide a whole healing

not in this place cause healing circles require doing of all the members on the in’s and out’s

she in her secrets went through a madness

she attempted to give what she had not for herself and in the process

made herself somewhat of a fool hearted monster

an arrogant piece

in loss she picked up glass

blew

turning her hurt into a force for hurting

what was not found in pills, friend, time, and smoke

and potential attention of of would be lovers

she manipulated … as was her way

being one who once was used

and she resented her feelings.

felt weakened and ran

in crisis

in addicted- afflicted pain

in thought

she tripped

she gave her self over

her desire to die

made genocide seem causal

she wanted to become less

and they cried

at first only heart tears birthed of memories of when star dust was our makings and we played in infinite

they pitied her

hated her

called her a whore and became blunt with their warnings of death

“we will leave you hear, song bird.”

they became most watchful of her terror

the aids whore

takes drags from men she barely knows and most certainly despises

she deflects

because living on life’s terms is much

and bothersome

she is a creation

made both by self and society
she is a complete being

hurt. human. and hero

dese hats were picked up not completely by her choosing

but the wearing of them is what gives her movement

value

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. 

 

 

 

 

morning affirmation

ancestors give me strength.

ahm really struggling.

this is day two of having intense dreams about relapse and waking up wid fire in mah stomach. 

dis disease is powerful- makes me see the only way into the embrace of another man as being through usage. 

ah know dat loneliness is more than that for me. it is about the process of coming to comfort wid yo’self and not just findin’ that holdin’ in ‘nother man but it sure feels kinda nice. to be held. 

affirmation made to mahself: “you is beautiful, perfect, and whole just as you is- you is beautiful, perfect, and whole just as you is. all that you need in love and life is there or on the way- waiting for you to be ready. be still. be present and enjoy this movement.”