Sunday, July 26, 2015

What One Poem Can Lead To

I have this dream where I hand
a beautiful woman one of my poems
and she begins to undress on the spot.
We're in a coffee shop and I plead with her,
"Please, not here."
But she answers with,
"You showed me the poem here didn't you."

She has a point.
So I begin undressing as well.
The people at the other tables
don't seem to notice.
Four co-eds are like discussing
like everything that like
happened to them today.
A young guy,
in a tattered jacket,
and a scarf swirling around his throat,
is head down in a Spanish translation
of "Crime And Punishment."
Two gallery owners
blame it all on Matisse.
Three engineering students share formulas.
Two aging gays hold hands.

So we make love on the table
amid the muffin crumbs and Java stains
and then, when we're done,
we put our clothes back on,
and I ask her,
"Can I get you anything?"
She says, "Yes, do you have a poem
where the woman doesn't fake her orgasm
and the guy means everything he says to her."
I tell her,
"A poem, no.
A dream, yes."

--John Grey 

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Last Line

I am writing anywhere
carrying and placing mugs,
leaving rings of condensation,
atomization around
tired eyes, staring out
into light polluted skies
no STARS! My God! No
Stars! NO FUCKING stars!
blankets of purple clouds
unfurled, beyond that unearthly
opaque blackness, like
skyscraper windows unframed,
hell, and ah! shit, expletives and
watch this thing unseen, it's
video-logged to you head
linked directly to the brain,
layered like cake, thick
and creamy icing spread between
pink naive wrinkles and synapse,
LOOK, I only write what's behind
my iris, see? didn't you know?
I got hazel eyes, two colors unfold,
you'll be wondering,
we'll be gazing,
face to face, sight line switches
between pupils, dilating--if only there
were enough words to get it--
but there's too much--Aww~!
you know, too much too much,
I only have one line left.

--Tom Pescatore 

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Maybe I should TW this

(I always breathe in deeply a couple times before I start reading. maybe you wanna imagine that, maybe you don't.) 

"Nobody cares!" 
Bolded, italicized, underlined. 
"Nobody cares!" 
I visualize your lips and your tongue painting what you just said to me. 

"This is the real world, this is how things work," you spit.

I visualize jumping.

'Get used to it' fills the silence in my head that my breathing couldn't. 
As I restrain my lungs from expelling air, I restrain myself from letting you hear my cry because it's not longer safe to. 
What you're saying to me is that I am other, my kind is abnormal, that I don't exist in the real world. 

When you kissed me again for the second 1st time on Sunday, I was elated. 
I was finally kissing someone who saw me. I was kissing someone who I didn't have to justify or defend myself to. 
It's Wednesday now, and I don't want to kiss you anymore. Your face makes me angry. 

I wake up every day to face the real world. 
The real world where I apparently don't exist.
Where every new person I meet is a potential threat to my identity, a potential threat to my physical safety. A threat to my existence. 
The real world where I'm afraid to get out of bed. I'm afraid of intolerance. I'm afraid of hostility.
The real world where people like me face violence on a regular basis. 
Where I watch a man beat my non-binary friend after the words "faggot" spill out of his mouth and are caught by his fist that meets my friends mouth. The real world where people like me were once bundled up and set on fire is referenced every single day nonchalantly and this word has become ingrained in our diction. 
The real world where I battle my body and ask myself if I want to deal with the physical pain of tightly binding my mass of chest tissue or the emotional trauma of not. 
I barely exist in the real world, gasping that somebody will see me. 
This is not your real world though. 

The only reason why I get up in the morning is so that one day I can maybe be that person who sees someone like me for who they are and includes them in the real world. Every day I'm alive is a rebellion and success; as my mind battles my body and my body battles suicide, I will continue to exist in the real world. I have to ask you, if nobody cares and if this is the real world, what are you doing to make that different? 

You're cis, I'm not; what you've said has silenced me, but I won't allow it. 

You don't get to call yourself 'radical' - you're not an ally. 


Sunday, July 5, 2015