Sunday, June 28, 2015

These Drunken Ramblings

There are some nights when I love
my life
albeit whiskey-soaked and
karaoke-laden with slutty
passes at
bearded men.

My former life was
liquid
flammable
liver...unfriendly
poor
but the happiest life
I've ever had,
the best
I could ever
imagine.

Songs meant something and sex
meant more,
especially with post-suicide
Elliot Smith,
depressed
and urging you to
fuck on,
young soldiers,
fuck on.

As much as I grasp at it,
my unsatisfactory life
pays my bills
stamping me into the masses
unfortunate
unwelcoming
reformed
unhappy people.

I don't want to die
like this
sated. fat.
but not alive.

Still
Siouxie and her bansees
never
bring me home.

And I have
just one more
donut,
sugar to
sate
my libido,
my life,

my soul.




--Jessica Gleason

Monday, June 22, 2015

I'm getting chubby with my cat

I'm getting chubby with my cat
Our white bellies relaxing, in disbelief
White bones long gone, now that
White powders are further, their grief

No longer mine, you are what you eat
consumer culture
white plastic bags
drug culture
white wrapped drags
white toilet vultures
Low self esteem is an effective gag

My white belly was a full moon
I would have named her after you
It was too late, and too soon
Three white pills, and my
white washed bathroom
was red for three days

White school halls
white paper tests never got to drag her away
from herself
White washed sexual education
pee stick test
Angry fathers lacerations
Take a drag, away from myself
And yet we hope
That they'll grow up in
kindness
Or at least silence

dissociation is an effective gag


--Sophia Kelly

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Spanish Harlem

Hot words spewed from
dog stained fire hydrants
in a sweltering Spanish
Harlem July noche

Vatos sat on concrete stoops
comparing nine and ten
millimeter chrome plated
equalizers, pretty mamacitas

Flashed Ladysmith.38’s and
legs all the way to heaven,
they all knew a double tap

was a one way ticket to gone. 




--Catfish McDaris

Sunday, June 7, 2015

flicker

we’re too young and too eager to be watching girls and boys in gold
bodysuits and lace corsets shaking and stumbling across the stage
and our mothers wouldn’t appreciate our purple lipstick and craft store
rhinestones lighting the way down our necks to our collarbones
that boy who thinks he knows how the universe works compared
you to nicotine when he strapped you down to the pages of his notebook
and sold you for a penny per word, and now he’s here smoking girls
by the pack out by the curb and putting them out against the concrete –
an affair that was high risk but low consequence. you hold a dollar bill
between your teeth, gripping washington by the throat and when the girl in
pasties and a stockings and little else brushes your chin, you tell yourself
you’ve found another person to ruin you. you’re part of an eight-eyed
animal clad in velvet and sickly sweet body spray that still burns
the throat worse than the lukewarm liquor you kept in a water bottle.
we’ve had our share of filthy dogs following us into bathrooms or worse,
tearing deeper holes in our shredded tights, so by now we’ve learned how
to slink back into the night like amorphous shadows you’ll see flickering
beneath street lamps out of the corner of your eye and mistake for haunts.

we’re just kids trying to save our parents another nightmare.






--Serena Devi

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Speak Your Peace: Rafiki Shyne Dave


This piece was originally performed at Cha Island on March 26, 2015 for our local Speak Your Peace! event. It was amazing.

Success Story

Sometimes, people want to hear a success story. They want to hear about the guy who was bullied for years, rose above the pain, and got his life together. They want to hear a romantic rendition of a queer cinderella story coupled with beautiful transition, "this boy was born female and now look at him!", or when specifically talking with /me/, "I keep forgetting...he/him, got it, I'll try harder next time." I appreciate you, more than words can express, but I'm trapped.
Trapped as a boy, trapped as a girl, not manly enough, not pretty enough, desperately clinging onto a time someone said I was beautiful and didn't care what that meant and now -- anyone can grab a movie on Netflix, or take a walk to a gay bar where you get to see two hot chicks making out, and all I can ever think is damn -- is it too late to go back?
I cannot erase the last two years of my life, gender fluidity, gender fuckery, gender creativity, my gender is a hurricane, I've never been more me (free), and I'm still picking up the pieces when I knocked down a closet door -- for the second time.
Sometimes, people want to hear a success story and I know many. But the next time anyone throws a camera in my face, I'm going to tell /my/ story, and I'm going to say that I fight every day just to be okay, but I'm still here breathing -- And that in itself is powerful.
 
--Rafiki Shyne Dave