contraband

dere are terrible nights dat bring us longing
ah am reminded of thousands of men movin’ready ta risk stability an sanity 
for a feigned intimacy
a fleetin’ embrace

ah am one- have been one bent over park benches in a stupor beggin’ ta be plowed
by fantasy men 
possessors of dicks de size of mah shoes

ah know truth well
have been wid it while questioning wat darkness could bring …
wat solace may be had in final closings …
if dis fuck would bring closure …
an wat exctasy may be had in a release while holding an tasting seas of misery some piece left on mah tongue …
if fate had planned me doom long ago …

in truth- ah wanted ta be held
taken in
an care of 
in truth ah wanted ta be seen past nail polish, 
inviting hole,
whorish mouth
hip switch an’ halleloo

ah came ta dis darkness ta get feeling
despite bein’ warned
despite bein’ seein’ evidence of de contrary in rape scenes, suicide attempts, White men playin Risk wid Black skin, luring sin an’ manipulation

he asked where mah voice had gone
“how could you lay here both wanting an unimpressed? why don’t you sing when we touch?”
skin intimate indeed.
ah hold mah skin
in respect an’ disgust.
see potential
an’ warfare. 
skin is contraband. 
contempt
an’ spiritual ground.

ah should have used mah vision 
ta see wat game dis was.
an opted out.

mah pain. 
is immense.
is real. is in need of holdin’
not another night in de hidden temple. 
not in need of another night of exchanging death in ejaculation.

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

flowers, reflection and other thoughts : meth. shame speech. cravings. self determination.

this should be prefaced (because the rules of this storytelling and most others demand it) there is something to be said before the something that must be said. 

i am seeking peace. always moving and attempting to work that process. to see what it can manifest it self into in my lifetime. folk told me the other day that peace is something ugly and moving. that it, for them, was caught in the duality of stillness and the chaos. accepting that chaos will be and that stillness will be too. i take that- for me peace is seeing and holding to that always. chaos always is but so can be our stillness if we want to see it that way.

moving out of my old space recently has brought on hard feelings. more severed ties, more conflict, more movement with money at it’s center, as this evil thing. more trauma.   

moving out of my old space recently has brought on good feelings. more strengthened ties. more reflection, more movement with intention at it’s center guiding me to still shores. more growth. 

i am experiencing trauma, homelessness, addiction, set back, triumph, love, community, good food, laughter, downtime, planning, and intention all at once and it is a lot to process daily.

today i woke up feeling down on myself. and had several intense flashbacks of my drug usage.  

i felt embarrassed.

i believe this and feel this deeply.

i see myself for what is worst. what has been worse. what is worse. all the time. 

the dangerous thing about solitude is that it can fuck you in ways that no other lover/thrust/or drug can. it can leave you with yourself crawling in ears and doubling on self. it can… and, for me, does a lot. as a Black queer male i feel sadness for the ways in which i have allowed my body to be used, by White men and others, during my meth use.

and i think on that and i feel embarrassed and sad. i also feel the need to use again. i feel it rise up and i understand that for me part of my addiction has to do with my ability to understand, and forgive myself in order to be able to heal. i have to accept what has happened as much as i have to analyze it. and i am sitting with it. speaking it and then letting it go because it is a story of mine that only i give power to. i can move that sorrow around myself. it don’t move any other way. 

my sadness is just. this is a sad situation to remember and to have happened. and in this valley i also see more of what is- this is a tremendous gift. to be able to see this memory and to know that with my hands, mind, and tongue, i can create more. my world is beginning with each dawn. i have seen the world end in oceans on my pillow. every night i have seen this but i also know that we transition into dawn. change (the chaos of it) is a principle of the universe.

and so my sadness too, can exist and transform. it must exist and transform.

so must i.

and it ain’t easy. and part of understanding is knowing that i will fuck up again. we are building the tools that work for us. our parents and elders have their own ways of being to learn from. and other folk have methods. but no one is a greater expert on your healing than you. and so we fuck up because we are building our own models and it takes time to craft something fabulous enough just for you. 

i got through my sadness today in realizing that i could at least rejoice in getting back up. i got that strength and will. i messed up but i can always come back. and think on how to build more.

i rejoiced in getting up. 

silence. fear. shame. reflection. patriarchy and other #hashtags to give this.

if you follow this blog close enough- then there is certain things about me that you know. 

one of the most prominently talked about things being my HIV status. I am positive. Have been for a little over a year now

and i don’t believe in hiding that. and i don’t believe in not holding that.

this has been probably one of the roughest years of my life- just trying to exist. i am black. i am positive. i am a recovering drug addict. i am male. i am queer. i am poor. i am a rape survivor. i am an artist. i am single. i am what i have allowed my self to be- what the world has made me- and what it has labelled me. And i am told that it is important for me to continue. And i am told that i matter. And i am told that this is not what it was 20 years ago but still … it hurts to the point of immobility.

And there are times like now when i spend the entire day biking around this damn city trying to find peace and i cant. i still feel like everything is closing in and i don’t want this life anymore. And there are times like now when i wake up in the middle of the night and i feel very alone and cold. And i really want someone to hold me because i feel abandoned by so much and so many.  

And i know i need to do that for myself. Because ultimately i just have myself to be with and depend on. And i need to find a way to hold myself throughout this life. Doesn’t make that any less difficult. Doesn’t make the reality of my thoughts stop. 

there are exercises that i use: i remind myself of three beautiful things for every negative thing i see or think. i write. i draw. i bike. i observe the negative or unfortunate for what it is- hold it and then try to move on. i remember that i have teeth and a mouth to smile with and i find something to cause that sensation- cause despite being depressed, i do like to laugh. 

and these work- sometimes. they stop me from using drugs or sex as a means of escape- sometimes. 

this is tough. and i am scared. and there is no point to this piece of writing other than to say that.

and be ok with saying that: i am scared and tired and most days do not want to be here. and for right now i believe that it is ok to say that because it is honesty and because those feelings do need to be acknowledged. 

part of the patriarchy- the ways in which people are taught their social/ gender roles (in this particular case- male bodied people) is a particular silence. 

another is the shame of emotions and of sex.

admitting these very personal struggles is apart of my work in trying to undo what the patriarchy has taught me. 

writing these things makes them real. materializes them so that not even i can escape. 

letters [nov.17]

. . .

i feel touched

in places that is low.

and i feel hurt.

and i feel numb.

i feel

stuck.

im now seeing, love,

that it feels like life is something opening in the distance

and im finna stand- and run to it.

a vibration towards peace

i have been looking for it in round about ways

and very small places

peeking and hoping and such.

and laying down with myself on days when I am alone

and feel that way

beat up and called worse and in debt.

schemin off to myself- promises

and well wishes.

 

I want community

to not feel torn and thrown over rocks.

 

sunlight and the laughter of a mother and daughter at the bus stop.

 

It’s precious and I think

in small glimpses of light -and life-

i find joy.

 

its very easy to feel crushed.

and i do.                 Now probably more than ever I feel hurt.

but things, once known, are coming back to me

 

that life is precious

and that we(i) deserve peace.

we(i) want peace

and all of my vibrations are moving there.