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.”

 

 

love poem.

when i give love

i feel powerful

not because i am demonstrating my power but because i am present in life

my body feels good

and high

when i receive love

i am humbled and honored

i am worthy and unworthy

i am a mountain

and i am in community

with folk

who like me

like to love.

ceremonies that we has

 

i was very conscious in mah choice to spend the night with with you

cause i coulda been in mah own bed- where monsters only come out if i want them too an’ flowers is paths to places i kept locked in mah mind an’ i can roll around in mah own sheets cause they’re mine and i like owning them that way. 

but yes, i was very conscious in that choice.

cause its a delicate thing to lay with someone an’ hear them breath- listen to their being caught between worlds of different makings an’ observe the movements their chest makes, an’ wonder about where they are- if your lips are there with them, or if they’re happy constructing universes 

i did that, i made mah choice. an’ i is glad that that night was us

cause it was a new moon- an’ i had water out for intention, an’ mah room wasn’t as clean as i like it to be on the beginning of a new cycle, an’ mah heart still needs to process but i is glad for us. cause we started this new cycle digging up dirt, an’ planting seeds, an’ drinking whiskey an’ playin cards. mhmm. we did. 

 

 

confessions and guarantees

i can confess to movings made in lust 

and weakness.

i can say that i 

have been apart of the sea of silhouettes in longing

and that i’ve been one, under the moon, with loneliness in my eyes.

him is someone distant

someone who may not come through at all

show up at all…

what has been given to me is myself 

and so, with moon water made, im finding pieces left throughout boulevards

and i ain’t as well put together as i used to be

and thats colored in some small kind of sadness

but i can barely notice in moonlight cause it colors different.

im finding pieces left throughout boulevards 

that is new.

 

 

 

last night.

I went to the city last night
Where none know me
and I wished you were there
breathin soft on my neck like you used to do

I wrote us a story.
I hope that dont sound silly
itsbeen a month of Sundays
and I know talkin ain’t been much between us
but I still did
I wrote it
and I kinda hope you see it written there in our colors

how you like me.

you like me submissive

like some bitch- open for use

a hole

to be bred and pumped

full of your cum and misery.

 

touching is for your own pleasure,

rights and permissions.

 

because i ,like the boys before me,

will suffer you, for now.

 

In our longing for shinning armor,

horse backs, candle light, dope dick,

and lips wet with emotion

there you stood- erect

with promises.

 

I am growing tired of once a month fucks,

forced embraces and half held “hi’s” preluding

“lemme see that ass”, “suck me”, “you like this dick?” and “roll over”

 

You like me submissive

because i am for you.

like i am for you.