a man dissolved.

i have been cultivated indelicately, been drawn upwards from a barren ground achingly


A moment of intense conviction and relief: 

I recently decided that I must turn to pleasure to survive. Constantly disallowing myself pleasure in so many ways is killing me. After a dreadful class and before another, even more dreadful one, I was drawn to the nearest bookstore by the slightly moldy yet somehow erotic scent of the yellowing-page..I know right where I’m going. I clutch at bindings thirstily. 

3 novels by Colette. 

"Your total comes to $12.87." 

$12.86 all the money in my pocket.

The loveliest coincidence. 

A sign: now 99% sure I am going in the right direction. 

love and other placeholders

When we met we were like clouds quietly crushing into one another, like breath mingling. We came together like a moment already remembered.

You said: Well please be honest with me. This is new and fast and exciting. I see possibility and permanence in our shared commitments to the things we care for.

I wasn’t. I know. I do, too. 

I swelled with you like something soaking in water, like honey pooling into a drop. It happened quickly, it was always going to happen, it was gravity, it was permeation. It was an inevitable saturation, our selves became wrapped in a liquid glisten, touched by a slowly lapping wave pulse, and listen, and listen, and listen. 

The words we’ve made together, the way our bodies and minds flush and quell on a tether, the consuming cosmic-grip, slow-drawn honeydrip floods my mouth with wanting, with need, with care, with love and other placeholders hanging on my lip with a gentle glisten, but now I am lost and listen, and listen, and listen. 

I’ve broken something. I’m a honeydrip in the dirt, I need the bees knees to clean me off and I will un-break this. I’ve made place in my heart big enough to fit this in, so listen, so listen, so listen. 

This is hard to tongue, hard to cheek, a jawbreaker bitten and broken teeth. Sugar sleeps in the cavities with a nerve sting. Blood, crystal, and ivory. I swallow all this hurt, all this knowing, all the pieces that can’t be put back together just yet. I want to, I know I have to for this.  

HoneyDrip. Cosmic. Grip. Tongue. Soak. Consume. Permeate. Care. Love (     ). Exhale.


We are rooted in a pile of broken crust.

From the very beginning you and I have been something like a fire on the sea floor, a garden in the city.

We’ve fissured through carcass, crustacean, and immeasurable sediment with a sharp hiss and a curling flash of red.

We’ve been pushing up concrete and permeating impermeable surfaces with our unbelievable greenery, unbelievably sure.

We grip,

We tear,

We push,

We risk,

We know

to move upward.

We are always up against the whisper and snicker of “Impossible,”

echoes in a catacomb of doubt,

And yet, there are fires on the sea floor and gardens in the city.

Georgia on my mind…

Ghost puffs of cotton flutter next to these old plantation mansions with their overseeing verandas that wrap around and beyond my sight out here in the white, the old South, which may be more black than it will ever admit. There is the indelible print from a heavy boot heel; the smell is leather and dirt and blood, steeping my skin like sun-ripening sweet tea. I see a rope weeping from a peach tree on this slow saunter down main street Appalachee. Every scene is a mess of nostalgia and Southern comfort, of folk and soul, simplicity and rhythm; yet also sorrow and bitterness, racism and hate, pain and fear, clay and blood. Suddenly these beautiful fields become impassable sorrows, no longer thriving with life but full of life absorbed, stolen. Lives, landscapes, and memories are very differently colored.

This is the geography of our little ol’ Georgia, our jazz-and-bluegrass Georgia, our yes’m-yessir Georgia, our collards-and-watermelon Georgia; our ten-lashes-to-twenty-five-to-life-for-negritude Georgia, our ‘whites-only’ Georgia, our peach-trees-planted-and-Peachtrees-paved-by-black-hands Georgia; our dirty-sweet, scary-beautiful, Harley-riding, coupe De’Ville driving, plantation-owning, project-thuggin, hootin’-and-hollerin’, hotter-than-two-hells, perfect-piece-of-shit Georgia.

It is part of our everyday experience of being here, and you think we do not know? Our terrain is bodied by history’s slow-moving ghosts, and we pass through them with a tired grimace. We confront, we confront, we know, we know. We learn to know we cannot escape. This is the substance of humidity that swells our bodies and buildings, our pores, mortar, and joints with a gristly slip. It is the red in the clay, the kudzu taking over. We must try hard to fight and accept, to love and regret: to pare away, but not remove it from the landscape. It must remain always in view like the threat of unsweet tea. It will always define something about this place and we must know that. It is a troubling visuality, a schizophrenic horizon, a series of mixed metaphors, and yet, everyday, part of our living.

A moment when everything shifted

"We need to radically challenge the notion that we don’t have an obligation to care for one another"

This was the moment when everything changed for me, those words released from a chasm deeper than the black in her braids. Now things are rushing out, things are opening up from the deepblack. Our hands on the pulsing, sunwarm shoulder of a silver stallion poised to run…

being queer

it’s a tendency, we have a tendency of working our tendons into carefully manipulated contortions constituting our routinized, regulated borders. we embody only borders, are given only a hair’s breadth of being, a violent narrowness in which to perform.

muscle memory. to performances we are bound, sinews that come between the impulse to embody and the embodiment are tensile, fibrous, wound through and around like fingers on our being. flexion, tension, flexion, tension, tension, tension, tension. muscle memory is beyond blood and betwixt flesh. separating flexion from tension is an imprecise contraction, a mere minor fluctuation, a subtle skin ripple, a velvet beat of a butterfly’s wings. it takes only the slightest of movements, and sometimes less than that, for some thing to become something else— realizing this is enough to inspire a dissenting opinion of our apparent rigidity.

with a beautiful pirouette we may just slip away and untangle from flesh, blood, and memory; take a silent cue and separate, dissipate, fluctuate. we must begin to fail to inhabit ourselves in order to cultivate new proclivities for being, to turn strangling sinuousness into an immeasurable tenuosness. can you dance on a hair’s breadth?


intimacies are ripening into frailty, passions are weathering threadbare, fall is drawing him away again. driving the moving truck, he begins blinking like a waiting cursor on a white page…something is stirring. something internal, perhaps imaginary, dies everyday under his skin; some performance fails with a quickly closing curtain. the velvet is cutting. he’s thinking: do you remember when you thought you were beautiful? when you felt beautiful for the first time? you began becoming after that pitch black bathroom almost caved you in, remember? you came out of there with your feet on the fucking coldest concrete in a basement that was in the middle of everyone else’s nowhere. remember how hard you couldn’t cry? how hard you gripped that countertop it merged with the bones of your palms? you knew nothing and noone. was it resolve that let you sleep on the driveway? you woke freezing and beaded with dew but the sky was glass and reachable. you were becoming beautiful and it hurt. 

now that he’s been, it hurts even more. 

freedom of a killjoy

 you tell us



you tell us,


you tell us

secrets, voicelessness.

you want





personal, personal, personal.

you want to hear us

female families

feminine mammies,

want to listen

with your fading feminist ear

to our


sweet nothings

absolutely nothings

so that we can

become to you,

become your

empty-woman she-her

breast-bodied other—


fuck you.

i’ll be your

angry feminist,

your angry fucking





licking my lips

her lips

with my rug-munching


your wide-eyed


just begun

because i exist

and i call myself


but i don’t exist

for you.


figure my fucking


that second sex

which is not one,

chanting colored

voodoo hex

on your rising son

with, once again,

my salty-sexed






my wilting rose flesh

in full death bloom.

i will not

water myself for you

nor nourish

your wish

for a white-skin

red-dress miss

blue-blood bitch





in kinky-pink kitsch—


fuck you

fuck this,

i am not for

your wanting,

will not come for

your first, second, third


do not speak for

your listening.

i am

not for you,

i am

for myself.

“We grow around every injury, never able to heal it—we just encompass it. We take every ache, every hurt, every shame into ourselves and live with it inside our skins. Is it this that becomes our stone?”

—   S. Bear Bergman, Butch Is A Noun (via jamesoutlaw)

(via transartorialism)

my color scar in x-ray


your doorstep is soft

with the pale bodies

of last night’s moths

and i stand at your threshold 

like wings surrendered

some moments like moth flutter

fade in the morning

fall in the morning

followers, comments, likes, anyone out there? i'm new at this.


my back and my bones are aching from being a “man” today. sometimes there is not room to escape what others want to pile on my shoulders or in my calloused hands, and so i carry twice the weight, my skin blushing with bruises colored like already dead blossoms. i’m sinking like the way “muscle” sinks on the tongue. “muscle,” say it slowly and it lapses into beauty. “muscle,” slowly, softly. “muscle,” sadly. so many times i think i can’t do this, i don’t want to wake up a “man.” i need some ice to press into the pain racing up my spine. i need that collision, that melt. i need something to become more fluid. 


we are hushed like blood imagery.

breath on flesh under a blanket

sluice, flow, spill

we are imagined borders.

we have been being something all this time

something we love to think we can touch

and what is the name of the world now

when words are failing our tongues,

when the water has fled from our palette?

we know there is nothing to say, 

so close your lips on my wrist

like a suture that will never be there

water. drops.

like gravity building on a droplet of water, curling around it gently, coaxing it to the ground like any soft voice.

like any soft voice.