For some time, I have been struggling to get back to my craft. That is, I’ve been struggling to creatively and bluntly get to the heart of the matter of…
“I loved him in a secret place. It wasn’t hiding. It was somewhere, some where, some place I couldn’t put my tongue to but I knew it existed. I didn’t know where it was but I knew it was. I knew because it was a soul-truth. Not one of those truths where your tongue just does a few tricks and flips and clicks and some sort of phrase comes out that sounds good enough. Not that. Not that type of love. That type of meaningly notion of love that has no power. Has no blood or sweat behind it. That type of love that wasn’t paid for with nothing but time. Time is cheap. Time is going to be spent anyway. Spent with them* or spent with just you doing something else meaningless in this world of meaningless activity masquerading around as productivity when it is really just capitalism doing what capitalism, running you down and making you feel about your own euthanasia, that’s what it do! I’ll tell you true, now, just listen here. THAT. IS. NOT. THE. WAY. I LOVE(D)?. THEM*.”
o calmly wild;
there’s pure ecstasy in the way You see (through) me
the way You rip me apart in the name of edification
how do You find purity in my despair?
Dark and fat with star and misery she could not swallow me into anonymity, hips swinging blacker than her Cosmos, smile brighter than Moons mighty, known and named Ancestors wrought…
Love, at its core is both ethos and practice. It is a self practice, a relationship practice and a communal practice that is real and aspirational. It is a political…
When you turned your back
I saw the scars of your fears,
urgency in denial….
I think you felt
refusing to understand
was the same as holding on.”