"To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time." – James A. Baldwin
brown eye belly fat thin skin sometimes fem broad nose thick lip forty-four and insecure and every day i dress in my finest feelings so i lied to you about the size of my dick then asked myself if i exist at all to which you reply every time never
in a red light room i imagine myself in my mother's womb trying to return or begin again inside the walls of my own imagination i am dragon-shadow cast against the inside of nowhere burning her down for freedom when the door will do because i cannot find the light i cling to a chord anchored … Continue reading Color of Love
"even mothers cut cords to keep us from killing them and save us from death"
As I think about the act of trimming excesses and formulating aesthetic definitions, I wonder how all of those haircuts and all of those men have "shaped" me. What did they cut off beyond my hair?
I. In July sun and burgundy car, I breathe 1985 in 11 year lungs, riding in silence. In our grief we bump against each other. This is kindling. This is dry wood. There is fire to burn. She has misplaced a son she never knew. And despite having his location, can never seem to find … Continue reading (Re)Consideration
tell yourself the man who eyed your thighs in short shorts shouting FAG! from caprice window wanted nothing more than to touch you or be touched but long ago lost freedom of language: gift of mothertongues made serpents by men split down the middle by he who fears the power of her … Continue reading (In)Difference
in his suicide forest i collected seeds and grew a garden inside myself thick with wilted things he is a reaper unsated an unworthy god who harvests the white of my bone and scatters soul-ash and grief as feed for the coming he manicures the place in me where men lay down to die a … Continue reading Rituals of a Son
