Weavethere are people who give infor lack of a feistier fightpeople living to ultimatelydig their own gravesand lay down quietlyand you look at them in pitylook at them in sympathylook at them and saywhat a tragedyif only they had held on a little longertried just a little harderand that's the ugly ironyhow many times have you watched someone slipwitnessed their ebbingheard that shovel kissing dirtthescrapescrapescrapeof despair against hopeand donenothinghow many timeshave you pitied the pitifulinstead of rescuing the salvageablehow many times have you wonderedwhat does she needwhat words precedevalue bestowed toher heart beatand said nothingand i am preaching with no right'cuz my eyes are guilty as anyone'sof seeing a world thrashed by the tideand here i amsecure on the beachlife preserver safely stashedbuthere is my fistunfurlinghere is my minduncurlinghere i
the want of a thing"the want of a thing is always more beautiful than the thing itself."- from cyclic motion by CyneNoirHe will always be the logprostrated across the rocky river bed -skeleton of a microcosmic worlddisintegrating.I imagined him a sapling,youth sprouting from supple branches,roots gladly reaching for secretsin the soil; I imagined him alive -but he is no more than the log,lain slant along the water's lonely lineawaiting the severity of the seasonsin reticence.
Why Spirit Day Is Not EnoughPrefaceThis essay was written in October of 2010 after DeviantART released this article supporting the Spirit Day movement to bring awareness to LGBT bullying.I wrote it because there were so many comments on the official article that were defaming to one group or another that I felt the true issue had been lost in the rhetoric. The point of Spirit Day is to show solidarity and compassion for your fellow human beings. Not gay or straight or ill or handicapped - those categories don't matter. We're just humans, each flawed and each perfect. Spirit Day was an attempt to remind us of that.I was confronted with two major arguments to this editorial in the original posting. One was that singling out LGBT suicides meant that I was putting more importance on that group than any other. For the purpose of the article, I suppose that's true. Spirit Day focused on LGBT issues, so the article (
My Romantic Bones Are Dancinglove is...i.the ability to face tormentfrom a thousand needlesdrilling a million holes eachinto the same square of skin -the gouge is a constellationaccompanying an epic talethat's every brandof truth.ii.the knowledge we are brokenby familiar handsand restored byfamiliar arms & lips& voice-patterns.iii.a metaphor for the inexpressiblegod in each of us;humanity's greatnessmanifested in a flame, lickinghollow spaces in our yawning caverns.iv.one soul seeking the fingertipsof another soul seeking the fingertipsof another soul seekingreparations for its mundane sins.v.the first breath, the last breath;the purpose of inhalations between.
things i am getting better atmeandering.comparatively caressing the curvatureof broken bodies and flower petals. an elbow,I have learned, is not so different from a tulip.speaking contemplatively& creating similarly.recognizing your handsas life preserving devices;grasping with intent.purposefulness.
For Beauty's Sake?Is it for vanity's sake we remakeourselves in the next generation's face?Do eyes and lips and hair a full soul make,or do conscience and mores also share place?The legacy left behind lies ahead:not in DNA strands, replicatedrather in kindnesses easily shedand big ideas, praising words quickly said.The world weeps with children aplenty,hungry, enslaved, pitiful in the streets.What use to them, rigid identity,who, in seeking food, often find defeat?Beauty resides not in a comely facebut in our ardor for this human race.
What's LeftThey found him hung like meatwaiting to be salted.Accidental suicide the paper read.Thirty-two and drunk, foolishand wasted: A portrait strangersmight examine for poems about lifeand death and the unsubstantiatedpoint to everything.And we are wordless, mindless,awed by the severity of grief; each alone in a cavity of communal questions.
_Un_Expected& it broke my heart soI chose boiled broccoliover apples, preferringa sulfurous stenchto the perfumeof your favored fruit.Between swallows,I contemplated clichés.
BoyMany women will write poetryfrom you. They will translateyour nose into an apostropheyour smile to the front sideof a parentheses, the backto tears only once admitted.They will filter your father's ashesinto adverbs that define your fingersquaking along skin and sintoward fibrous paper. They will dismiss your flawsas improperly placed commasor periods born before their time.They will inspect, perfect& infect you with emotionsyou never learned to muster.But none of them will knowyou as I did: a boy, bentbeneath the waves of loveand glad for it.