Blue Prelude I: Part of a Nervous Condition

Sup readers and believers.

Over the past couple of months I have been working on a longer story. One that is broken into three acts. I want to challenge my ability to tell narratives by playing with perspective and how a tale can be told. “Blue Prelude” is the story of the last day in the life of “Raymond” a Black man, trapped beneath the weights of patriarchy, society and race. Each act of the story follows a different section of the day and is told in a different way and from a different perspective. Please, enjoy (and share if the spirit moves you.) Also let me know what ya’ll think. Without further rambling from me. . . here is “Blue Prelude I: Part of a Nervous Condition.”


Blue Prelude I : Part of a Nervous Condition. 

I had known he was awake long before there was movement, long before his shoulders made that inevitable turn towards the peeking sun. Lovers learn secrets and patterns about one another’s bodies. Raymond’s body spoke in sounds- low moans in low valleys and light whistles in the peaks. There was a low moan as he stirred into consciousness.

“How long you been woke?” he mumbled- pulling my body into him and burying his face in my chest. The light had not yet begun to dance about, creating shapes and shade, so I still couldn’t see his face. Tension, thick as smoke hang in the air. I freed myself from the embrace, rolling towards the shards of sun coming through the blinds.

“Ray, how long you been here?”

“. . .sometime after the ‘nigga get out’ and ‘I want you to stay.’ I was confused but I thought it was cool when you let me come to bed and pulled me in all close, like you do.”

I turned back to look at him and there was that smile. I saw it, even in darkness. He pinched my nipple.

“We need to talk.”

“fuck!” then, after collapsing on the mattress. “Gene, I thought we were done with this shit.”

“This shit?! You sit up here and use my love like a door mat, put my heart in the sole of your shoe and walked all over with it.”

“Its gotta be all that because I didn’t say ‘hi’ to you?”


He held himself still, as if he were taking all the feeling in for the first time. My love was a strong man and silence usually meant that he had been stomped. I continued.

“How are we supposed to call this a ‘relationship’ when you can’t even stand the sight of me in the daytime?”

He sat still. Every few seconds a thought would come to him, but none seemed satisfactory enough to speak aloud.

“What do you want from me?”

“A ‘partna’. A ‘homies’. Ain’t that how you was talking in the beginning? You wanted to find a dude to kick it with. I didn’t know you just wanted someplace to drop your nut and leave.”

“Come on, bruh. . .”

“Nah, it’s the truth. You come over, we smoke, we fuck, we talk a little and you cut. Every time.” I sat straight up- the pieces of light now growing. “You don’t even know want your boys to know you know me at all. You just want a nigga to fuck when you want to get your dick wet.”

“Gene. . . I . . .”

“what?!” There was a familiar lump in my throat threatening to hold words hostage. My eyes were becoming wet. He stood up. I caught his slow walk to the bathroom from the corner of my eye- I needed to smoke. My fingers found the joint on the nightstand. Morning was doing her outside work from what I could hear. Small birds and big people crashed about. I inhaled and heard a deep sigh followed by the sound of piss come from the bathroom. Exhaled. Sun light and the small, floating, bits came I more fully. I saw Raymond as he was the day before- on the corner with two brothers.

Something moved inside of me, almost made me fall. The secrets of men are kept behind muscles and the telling of them usually instigates violence, but you cannot tell your heart to wait- to not beat at his sight. Approaching the boys heard one call me a ‘faggot’, the other laughed and Raymond made an uneasy smile. They had all known I was gay since high school. And I had known their secrets too- I had known the dungeons they entered and the darkness they sat in while they hunted for eager boys, desperate for love. I looked over to Ray- flashed a small smile, and waited . My pace felt slower. He backed away, clearing my path down the street. They laughed.

“That faggie you blood.” One said to Raymond. I couldn’t see his response. My back was to them by this point.

I took another pull from the joint. Kids were going to school. I could hear the younger ones going off- not yet met with the pain that comes with age. Raymond emerged from the bathroom. His face looked heavier than before. After a moment of sight and silence he came over to the bed and put his hand on my leg.

“I love you.”

“You’re lying. You can’t love someone you don’t know.”

I know you. I know what you like: all that old sad music that yo mama plays, Chinese food, reading Nikki Giovanni. I know you like me.” He was moving his hand towards my growing sex. “I know you boy.”

“No.” I said, closing my legs. I shifted away from towards the window. Anger pushed forth more violently: a raging bull. “You know your dick and what it wants and how it feels. You know that you got someone on a string that you can pla with whenever you’re in the mood to. And maybe that’s my fault and maybe. . .” tears. “. . . maybe I need to change that.”

“Cause you not happy.”

“I’m not.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want for us not to just be about joints and fucking. If you love me or care about me, I would want for us to be more to each other. I want a real relationship from you.”

“And you know that’s something I can’t give you, bruh. You know how niggas are how they trip. You want to find me laid out behind some store?”

“You don’t know how they’ll act. . .”

“I know what they like. I be with them all day. Stop telling me what things is like.”

Those words came out more violently than the others. His body tensed up and shook with anger all over. Usually the anger of men scared me. It conjured up thoughts of my father’s one- sided hands coming down on my face. This was different, Raymond shook with anger but there was also some sadness in there. His eyes became wet and began to speak to me and I saw him-probably for the first time.

“You act like I’m always trying to do you wrong, bruh but i’m not. I’m still here, not like whatever other nigga you had that came through, bust and left. I’m still here cause I love you. You got me and I want that. I want to tough you and be here with you and talk and fuck. I want to be with you, Gene. But you got to understand, we both men and that means something.”

“It means people are going to be ignorant. . .”

“It means e still got to survive in reality. This playin’ house ain’t cool with everybody and I don’t want shit happening to us.”

He paused, like he had found some thought and was turning it over before passing it on. He continued in a low tone- only looking up to me occasionally.

“I remember the sound of glass crashing, screaming and bodies hitting the floor. My father told us to stay in bed. Niggas was always being ghost’d or disappeared on my block. Always fighting. One boy got a problem with someone else he’d squad up and handle it. I remember a cat named Gary. He was a punk. Used to dress as tight and as bright as possible. And always mouthin’ off. One day Gary went  on this dboy named Vincent. I guess Gary was fed up with Vincent making fun of him and decided to step to. The whole block was probably watching when Gary switched over to Vincent and said ‘Listen I may enjoy taking some other man’s penis in me but I am nobody’s punk or faggot. Please know that’ Vincent laughed and ordered Gary out of the yard. When Gary didn’t move told one of his homies to get Gary out. Gary, without a second thought, spouted ‘ I’m the punk?! You the one too scared to stand to me and talk, bitch!’ Vincent struck thunder out of him. For a minute I thought someone took all the air out of the world. There stood Vincent like a tyrant- surveying over all the upturned tongues of his spectators and there lay Gary- made a mockery of. After sometime, Gary got up and ran from the yard. That night, in all the crashing, I heard Gary scream. It was a different scream- one people make in places of hopelessness. I heard him scream and beg to be left alone.”

Raymond was still- inside and out. I could tell that releasing that was exhausting for him. Part of me wanted to reach for him but decided against it. There was still too much anger between us.

“The next day my father took us to see Gary’s body. He wanted us to see ‘the dead faggot’. Gene, it was terrible. He was like a pile of pieces. His face was stretched out and the blood . . . there was blood everywhere. There were people everywhere, some crying, some laughing. My father spit in the direction of Gary’s body and we left. Gary stayed there for three hours, cooking in the sun, before the city came to get him off the ground.”

The blinds barely hid light anymore. Raymond was standing in the middle of the room- his entire face was soaked. I went to stand in front of him. My hand found his and I laid the joint in it.  His eyes were sad, big and lonely. Raymond had gone somewhere that I couldn’t follow.

“This here is about survival. I love you, Gene. I mean that like nothing else, but I also got to live. And for me that means some things are not for everybody to know.”

“Take a hit.”

He took a strong pull from the joint. I watched him be with himself for a moment- like the memories continued in waves, each more vibrant than the previous. By the time Raymond too his second hit, we were both sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“Maybe we don’t need to do this anymore, Gene. If you ain’t happy then I don’t want to keep doing this . . . neither one of us is happy.”

It was quiet. I was searching for a way to continue. Raymond’s emotion bleeding out took me by surprise.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. . . I’m sorry you saw that. Our parents don’t always do the right things. They working with what they got. I guess we got to figure out how to move through those memories.”

“C’mon bruh, don’t tell me how to feel. You always doing that.”

I sank.

“Im sorry, I just thought that . . .”

“Just let me talk sometimes. It feels like I cant do that.”

My hand found a place to rest on his lower back. I could feel my lover rocking in pain- in some place off where thoughts hold and keep you. He was bound to them. “Ray. . .” I spoke with no intention of creating an end to that sentence. The high made time move slower. The silence was becoming paramount.

“Raymond, I love you.” My eyes were wet already. “Shit. More than I should sometimes and it’s hard. It’s hard to love somebody that don’t exist. I can’t call you when I want, I can’t tell people that you make me smile, I can’t even hug you if I see you on the street. That hurts.”

He blinked. Let that sit within himself, then. “Why you care so much about that, bruh?”

“Cause this relationship cannot start and end in this room. Its like sweeping leaves on a windy day. Its pointless.”

He shook my hand off. “Whatchu mean?”

“I feel trapped. Same as you do in your skin- that’s how I feel in this relationship.”

Something inside me shook. He didn’t want to try and I was reaching that point where the sympathy you hold for a lover begins to fall away. Raymond sat bare- no pretense, false names or apologies and for the first time I truthfully didn’t want to deal with it. I had spent months waiting in a haze waiting for him to wake up and become apart of the fiction in my head. But he wouldn’t- he couldn’t. He took another pull from the joint and stood up. Fabric made small sweeps and a belt buckle smacked the floor- he was packing his things.

Ray made small steps, each one heavy with some intention. I felt him cast looks my way but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He walked over to pass the smoke and fell down on the bed beside me. I inhaled. Ray looked down. I felt bad for noticing how attractive he was. He’d always been beautiful. Before we knew one another, I had always thought about him- admired his deep skin, and strong jaw- the way the thickness of his brows gave his face life and how his full lips looked turned up in laughter. Whenever I would pass him on the street, I slowed down to listen- trying to catch enough of his voice to replay in my head later. As I laid back, looking at the ceiling, I felt his head lay on my stomach.

A year ago we were at a bus stop. I saw him coming across the street towards me and prepared myself for some kind of violence. For a while, he just stood at the stop, looking at me every once and a while. I felt his looks. They put me at ease cause I knew nothing harmful was coming- they felt hungry, like he wanted to devour me.

“Aye, um . . . aight this might be weird but I been watching you. I see you walking up and down the block with Marlon and them cats. And I uh. . .” he looked around real quick. “I think you look nice and like you got something going on that I might want to be apart of.”


“Like you want to do more than be around here for the rest of you life. I’m trying to get like that and uh . . .” He smacked his teeth in frustration. Words were hard for him. “you wanna hang out sometime? Maybe get something to eat?”

“Nigga?! What I look like, some faggot or something?!” I backed away. Raymond came as close to turning white as I believe he could. I laughed. “I’m playing.” He was still winded but chuckled. We laughed to each other till it became too obvious what we were doing. Raymond watched himself and backed up.
“What’s your name?”

“Raymond, what’s yours pa?”

“I’m Eugene. Nice to meet you Ray.”

There was a smile and a pause, neither of us knew how to continue.

“I was thinking, your bus might be coming soon but id like to see you again, can I do that?”

“I don’t know, that pick up line was a little. . .”

“C’mon bruh, I’m trying to see you.”

“Tell you what. Imma give you my number and you can call me tonight.”

“For real?” It was cute how happy he allowed himself to become. It usually didn’t happen with men. We learn to e hard and stay that way- occasionally letting out a little trembling- longing for more than that quiet that held us. I remember seeing his smile as the bus pulled off.

He called me later and we kinda talked. We paused a lot, trying to figure out what to say. He was new and I was scared. Holding a phone, heavier than any I had held before, rocking back and forth, I listened in close. Between small contained giggles he told me how he’d always seen me and wanted to talk to me. I couldn’t talk so much. The things I wanted to say stayed put in my stomach like weights was tied to them. So I just listened. Raymond went on about me, and trying to get into school, and other things. After about an hour he had to go. I tried very hard to play the game and seem unimpressed- I think that made his nervous ramblings go even longer but he made a mark. I was left swelling in my room.

“What’s going on in there, pa?”

I was back- Raymond now standing to pull his pants up.

“I was thinking about you and me at the bus stop that first day you talked to me.”

He smiled to himself, then openly.

“Don’t do that, we’re trying to break up, remember.”

Laughter. Then.

“Come here.” He’d said it soft and low on purpose. And then he was holding me, his eyes searching in mine. He let out a sigh.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t want to feel like this with you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Eugene. I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy as much as I can. Whatever that means.”

I looked at him. I felt his hands tremble as I held them. Something in me stirred but Raymond continued before I could speak it. “I’m done making you unhappy. So what do you need me to do? We cool? We gonna keep singing together or are we done? I wanna be cool with what you need.”

“I gotta be honest, Ray. I want you real bad. I want to be around you in all kinds of ways- not just when we fucking each other. And I think you do too, you’re just not in that space. And you shouldn’t feel bad about that. . .”

Tears were coming. My voice cracked and Raymond squeezed my hands a little tighter. I realized that I hadn’t been looking at him either. I saw his hands, over mine and then I found him. He was strong. His eyes still searching in mine- holding me- allowing me to continue.

“It just is what it is and we should be honest with that.”

He nodded, eyes still focused on men and then leaned in and kissed me on the lips. It was gentle, the same way he was the first time we kissed. And he squeezed my hands again, letting go as he backed up.

“ok, pa”

He talked more as he gathered his stuff. Kept assuring me that he was fine, occasionally he would pause, pain caught in his voice, and our eyes would meet and we would exhale together and nod.

The sun sat square on my back when he left- giving me a little warmth. I laughed nervously.

“see you at the bus stop.”

He didn’t really respond, just mumbled something that sounded like “yea” and stepped outside the door. He stopped, and leaned in to hug me. I hesitated for a second. There were eyes upon us and he, for once, couldn’t care less. I felt a wet kiss on my cheek.

“Se you round, Eugene.”

And he walked off. I watched his figure bounce down the hall, letting his wetness sit on my face. I thought I saw him look back once but it could’ve just been what I wanted to see. I said goodbye to him one more time, went back inside, and started to roll another joint.

end of act one. 

As If Bullets. . . (The poem)

I have been in the shadows with men

Known their loneliness

Kissed, held and touched it – tucked slightly behind their prostate

My first boyfriend kissed as though bullets were coming through bedroom walls

His narrow hips grinding against mine in the dark

hoping to communicate something that, if spoken, would mean suicide.

I remember the feeling of first laying my fleshy self down before him

Smelling him and listening to the command to remove more clothing

The way he felt around his shoulders.

The way his jaw line formed a perfect frame

The way he smiled when I found that spot on the back of his neck

I remember that knowing that came with pulling him in

Torn fabric and the faint sound of someone laughing

Around us, bawled up clothes, salted sheets, days when daddy didn’t show up and news clippings of attention worthy dead faggots formed mountains.

I’ve known how holding is dangerous and how men turn cold in an instance

How “cocksucker” stings and how he let them curse you at the end.

How laughter taunts and how no one can know.

I’ve known the whisper that comes after the embrace

and of corners that are good for sneaking into.

Of crying and bleeding

Of friends gone by and screaming,

trying to force the universe to understand that things don’t have to be like this

I’ve seen them clean up after

Saw the news story declaring: “Young boy killed, suspected gay hate crime. Stabbed, shot and sodomized.”

and felt his hand pull away

his lips now dry and no longer filled with that same longing.

As If Bullets . . .

This post started out as a poem. It isn’t complete in any sense. It is, rather, a series of thoughts put together with a poem rounding it all out.

One of the most devastating and tragic effects of the human condition under Capitalism is the psychic dissonance erected in the souls of the working class. By this I mean that people are alienated from one another and themselves. My first boyfriend kissed as if bullets were coming through bedroom walls. When we touched it was like there was a profound fear and loneliness that needed desperately to heal. Our relationship was a closeted one and existed long before Oprah gave it the name “Down Low”, before the witch-hunt and the fire that came after that; the ways in which queer Black men became the scapegoats for all things AIDS related in the Black community.  That persecution and hatred was one of the many reasons why he and I chose not to come out.

As I develop my Feminist, Marxist, Black and Queer politics more, I see a large absence of analysis of Black men’s particular oppression under patriarchy. I don’t see anything beyond a paragraph or a sentence and I believe it to be crucial to the revolutionary project to analyze the ways in which men, in particular Black men, are raised as half formed humans.

When we talk about Black men’s oppression it is essential to discuss the ways in which patriarchy has shaped a destructive silhouette of manhood.  One of my most vivid childhood memories is of being punched in the chest routinely by my older uncles, not because I had done anything wrong but because that’s he way young boys were taught to be men. When we were stopped from crying it was a hardening; a training in being void of emotion. These scars carry into our adult lives, as we become fathers, lovers, and friends. Something as simple as saying “I love you” becomes an illusive and rare thing because of the immense vulnerability shown in the statement. A hug or a kiss, especially given to another man, is something not commonly given because these displays of emotion tear at the very foundation of our socially constructed manhood. Our male-ness is sheltered in by our hardness, and guided by our erections and fist. To be male means to dominate. This holds true for most men, but especially for men of color, whose identities are measured against their white male counterparts. And it is this mix of oppression and male privilege that makes non-white male’s existence so damaging. Men of color often times find themselves attempting to access a power that is never completely within reach and this creates a violent nervous condition within the communities we occupy. To be queer and Black was the ultimate betrayal to the race and gender. You are screaming against the wall of silence that surrounds Black sexual politics and divorcing yourself from a male identity that was built through the domination of womyn.

It would be easy to just dismiss men as “men” (this fixed evil creatures), but that would not be revolutionary or productive to anything other than out and out separatism and the abandoning of hope in the human species. Additionally, since we are talking about Black men here, my position as a Black male does not allow me to dismiss members of my race like this. Our shared racial oppression binds us; holds us together. Instead I want to build a politic that challenges men’s position under patriarchy while understanding their development as a part of the capitalist structure. We have to learn to be kind to one another in this way, to strive to understand.

When we begin to talk about queer Black men, in particular ones that are labeled “Down Low”, we are delving into a deeper level of socially constructed behavior. I want to look at two points really on this subject. Lets see if we can expand this narrative a bit.


I would argue the capitalism teaches us that love is the stuff of co-dependency, annoying romantic comedies and monogamy- effectively destroying any true understanding of the word that could exist. In a way I’m saying that an idea such as true love is hard to understand and find in our current society.

In the case of Queer Black men and those labeled “down low” love finds itself struggling to find light. The common narrative is that a Black ma has a wife and leaves their bed at night seeking some high adrineline fuck by moonlight. Some time later the wife finds out that she has fallen prey to HIV/ Aids. Rarely do we ever unpack this and look at the men in these stories as fully human.

In a society where almost any love between men is vulgarized or unacceptable it becomes difficult to come to terms with the range of sexuality that we all possess. If we conceptualize male identity as one of power then homosexuality is an affront to that.


One of the largest and most violent arguments I had with him was when he told me to not “act like a faggot”. He wanted me to present myself like other boys our age so as not to incriminate himself and, in a way, to protect me from the harm that would come my way when people no longer tolerated my defection from gender norms.

In this instance we see how narrowly constructed and dangerous this idea of manhood is. For a Black boy who grows up with a little more switch in his hip, more sass in his speak, and more fabulousness in his genes life is a constant game of chess. Each movement must be deliberate or else. The violence with which flamboyance is met in oppressed communities is dis-heartening at times. This horizontal violence comes as no surprise, however. Often times, communities that are under attack from the larger society begin to police one another more harshly for difference and deviance from the prescribed norm.

So when we talk about the “down low” phenomenon or anything else in that vein, it is important to point out the material (and cultural) conditions surrounding actions. If there is a culture that violently socializes men in a manner that is incongruous without access the full range of human emotion, then we are setting up a situation in which we have people unable to be at peace within themselves. If men cannot access, understand, and express their essence then there is no way for them to do that with another person. Furthermore, in a culture that devalues femininity and builds the foundations of manhood in patriarchy there can never be a situation where men showing love to one another is completely acceptable.

As If Bullets. . .

I have been in the shadows with men

Known their loneliness

Kissed, held and touched it – tucked slightly behind their prostate

My first boyfriend kissed as though bullets were coming through bedroom walls

His narrow hips grinding against mine in the dark

hoping to communicate something that, if spoken, would mean suicide.

I remember the feeling of first laying my fleshy self down before him

Smelling him and listening to the command to remove more clothing

The way he felt around his shoulders.

The way his jaw line formed a perfect frame

The way he smiled when I found that spot on the back of his neck

I remember that knowing that came with pulling him in

Torn fabric and the faint sound of someone laughing

Around us, bawled up clothes, salted sheets, days when daddy didn’t show up and news clippings of attention worthy dead faggots formed mountains.

I’ve known how holding is dangerous and how men turn cold in an instance

How “cocksucker” stings and how he let them curse you