I’m not a scene boy,
Never have been.
My worth and value have never been
tied to visibility
being here nor there,
running back and forth announcing
my relevance to the ambivalence of other
folks trying to seen
And home in that space of flashing lights
and rallies thundering with empty applause,
hoping and praying for a rapture that might capture a moment in time when self is relevant to self, or others
To capture a moment when hair, lips, brows and biceps are on fleek and prepped for the performance
Pretty Hurts, Petty Burns, The Scene Erases
I’ve never wanted to be scene, being black, and queer, and somewhere beyond masculinity, nestled in proud, black poverty. Proud like black folks in lawn chairs barbecuing meats & meets white folks would never eat or greet, because they cause sudden death, yet smiling all the while because you can atleast afford that, performance, in the scene and gaze of white ambivalence and black yearning. Fuck dying. We all die.
I want to be felt–soul nuzzled against, with, inside, adjacent to soul(s). Studying communal war, no more.
Heard–the way my voice sounds in my head, no longer strangled or mangled by misinterpretations if my timbre and essence
Re-membered–body, mind psyche reconstituted as the spirit sent down from the Cosmos and the ancestors
Still–no stages, movements or performatives. A self no longer engaged in a daily practice of suicide.
I pray for the mimes of the unseen scene. I hope their souls from freedom in being heard. I pray for an ancestral rapture, coming to sweep us together into a liberatory collision where I feel you, and you feel seen and the spectacle of our homelessness is no more.
Photos, followers and the like have never healed a broken, black heart.