Healing Touch

Too many of my friends and loved ones know what it is to grow up in homes where violence is ever present. Too many of the people I care deeply about were physically, emotionally, and/or sexually abused by care givers who took too much and left deep scars in their lives and spirits.

I am a survivor.

I grew up, raised by my step-father, my Mom's second husband, who was, because of pain from his own childhood, an addict that used his hands and feet to beat out his rage into the body of my Mother and me. My earliest memories are of the day his mother died, a woman to whom I was very close, and the day when he beat my Mom unconscious in front of me outside of our home while my Mom was eight months pregnant with my little brother. Those memories are 30 years old, and they are still fresh in my mind. I can see the twilight, the concrete stairs leading down from our house to the street, I can see the screen door that I am looking through, and I can see my child hands gripping the mesh and crying as I watch my Mom lying, unconscious, below. I remember thinking that a car was going to park on her because she was laid out exactly in a parking space against the curb. I can not see my step-father in my memory, but he is present as a disturbance in the air as he rushed up into the house. I remember him yelling at me to go to my room, and I can even see the wood paneled walls of my bedroom.

Some children's minds bend around the memories and bury them. My mind has always done the opposite. I can reply each instance of fear and pain and trauma and rage like an old familiar VHS tape.

I have done much work to heal from that past, and while my spirit has come such a long way in its healing process, as has my mind, those memories also exist as very real trauma in the body. From ancient philosophy to modern medecine we have ample proof, science, reasoning and faith that tells us that the mind, body and spirit are interconnected in subtle ways. Any doctor will tell you that to heal from trauma, one has to rehabilitate all three.

Five weeks or so ago, I worked up the courage to ask a beautiful man from my gym out for coffee. It took me about a month and a whole lot of gumption to finally, haltingly, almost dropping my cell phone, if he would like to get coffee sometime. I almost fell off of the pec machine when he said yes and flashed me his diamond smile.

It wasn't long before he shared with me that he was a massage therapist with both a private practice as well as the staff massage therapist with Cirque du Soleil's new show Zarkana (GO AND SEE THE SHOW...IT IS AMAZING!). And it was during one of our very first conversations that Keith, that's his name...Keith Stiles, shared with me that he is a survivor of childhood emotional, physical, and sexual assault and violence. He also expressed to me, and later wrote a blog about, how his own experiences with childhood familial assault and violence informed his work as a massage therapist. For him, massage is a sacred practice and his practice a place of healing. In that place there is no room for the crossing of sexual boundaries neither on the part of the client nor that of the massage therapist. You can read his blog posting where he articulates clearly his point of view, and it is a point of view that should be shared widely. Massage is a healing art, it is a sacred art, and it should be held as such just as any Western medical practice is respected.

As Keith would label it, he and I have been "hanging out." I decided when I met him and found out what he did for a living that I would never ask him for a massage. In fact, only once, when I pulled a muscle in my back, did I even bring up the subject of him perhaps rubbing it for me, and by the time I saw him, it was done hurting, and I did not bring up the conversation again. My friend Dawn is a doctor, and I don't ask her to check me for hernias (plus, I grew up with her, so the thought of her telling me to turn my head and cough makes me giggle). So, I surely wasn't going to ask Keith to provide healing services to me.

Instead, a couple of weeks ago, I posted a note on my FB group guiding folks to Keith's blog about his practice, his experiences a child, and how he defines his healing space and the expectations of massage therapists and patients. I had recently been trusted enough and given the privilege of experiencing the stories of several friends of mine, some new and some old, that are all survivors of child sexual abuse (CSA). These six individuals, organized by the brilliant and stunning Amita Swadhin, working in partnership with Ping Chong and Company, put together a theater piece called Secret Survivors, and they graciously provided an interview for my blog some months ago before the show went up at the theater at El Museo del Barrio. For anyone that has survived any kind of physical abuse, sexual or otherwise, to trust someone else with your body, especially something as initimate as a massage, takes tremendous trust...a trust that some survivors are never able to give to a stranger. But because I know that trauma lives in our tissue, I decided that it was important to provide my community access to massage from someone that has also been to some of the places that they have been in their lives.

Then, a week ago, Keith asked me if I would be willing to write about the connection between his practice and being a survivor and publish it on my blog if he gave me a massage. I was extremely nervous, but I agreed. This afternoon, at 1pm, I was blessed by his hands.

Not to disclose any personal details, but he and I have seen each other in all of our "glory." But walking into his apartment today, I was a client and he was a service provider. From the beginning of the massage to the end, he took no liberties, he violated no boundaries, he assumed no privileges. When it came time for me to undress and get under the sheet, he left the room. Just as he would with any client, he arrange the sheet so that potentially vulnerable places were covered while he worked. His hands, his energy, and his spirit were about providing me with healing.

I have had several massages in my life. Every therapist has had to tell me to relax, to allow them to move my body, and to not tense up.

Today I fell asleep.

I was aware of his presence and his healing work, but I was betweeen wakefullness and sleeping, and I was able to allow him to move and arrange and do the work that he has been highly trained to do. When it was done, he thanked me as he would anyone else, and he left the room again, so I could get dressed.

He blessed me with healing and with respect, and he honored himself and the healing space he has created to do the work that he does.

Shortly thereafter I had to leave for a meeting with Bebe Zahara Benet, Will McNair, and DJ Baker. When I sat down, the first thing out of Will and DJ's mouth was that I looked young and relaxed and that I was glowing. One of them said that I looked like a child. I think, maybe, it's because that child that has lived with hurt for so long was touched with joy and love, gentleness and healing. I am so very grateful for the healing experience of StilesMassage, and I recommend his practice to anyone but especially to those that knew violence way too young.

Jason Mattison, Jr. Murdered in Baltimore

I am sitting at my computer, drying tofu and waiting for a college friend to come over, so we can have dinner, drink wine, and enjoy each other's company. Up until I opened my Facebook a moment ago and saw an article posted by my friend and fellow blogger Andres Duque, I took every single moment of my day supremely for granted.

Today Jason Mattison, Jr. reminded me to pay attention and to be grateful. Yesterday it was George Steven Lopez Mercado. Both of the lessons came at the cost of these youth's lives.

What the fuck is wrong with motherfuckers in this world?

I mean come on. Jason was raped, stabbed in the throat and face, gagged with a pillow and shoved in a closet in his Aunt's house. He was murdered by a friend of the family known to be a violent criminal and yet somehow they let him in the house and left him alone with this boy? WHAT THE FUCK! I might love the hell out of a good friend or relative that snaps and does violent harm to someone, but you can bet from that day forward that person will NEVER be alone in a room with anyone that is precious to me...especially a child.

And what really pisses me off, once again, is that since this was a black child that was murdered in Baltimore in a poor neighborhood, there will be no massive Matthew Shepherd outcry. There will not be massive candle light vigils around the country. There will be no massive legislative intervention by the HRC or NGLTF or any other national advocacy group. I am so tired of the fact that OUR children, our beautiful brown and black children, are continuously sacrificed and pass out of this world without a tremendous roar by every breathing loving person that understands that every single human being is precious. FUCK YOUR RELIGION if it tells you that a gay child should not complain when he or she is killed. FUCK YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD if people get off by harassing and slamming queer kids just trying to grow up. FUCK YOUR SCHOOL if it does not immediately boot anyone that thinks its ok to bully or shame someone because of their perceived sexual orientation or perceived gender identity.

THIS IS NOT JUST A QUEER PEOPLE OF COLOR TRAGEDY. THIS IS A TRAGEDY.

I want to see white straight male Republican capitalists that own overseas assets crying on TV about this child's murder. I want WHITE LED LGBT ORGANIZATIONS to organize the marches and vigils and remembrances of this baby. I WANT A GODDAMN NATIONAL ACT TO ELIMINATE POVERTY in this country called the JASON MATTISON JR and GEORGE STEVEN LOPEZ MERCADO ANTI-POVERTY AND WELFARE RIGHTS ACT that also includes a provision that provides for Puerto Rico to become a free and independent nation with a guaranteed annual no strings attached AID package of 100 billion dollars a year for every year that Puerto Rico has been a U.S. Colony, which is 110 years and counting.

Remember Jason Mattison, Jr and his family in your thoughts and prayers. And once you are done praying, call someone and tell them about his murder, then call your neighbors, your schools, your legislators, your ministers, your police force, and anyone else that needs to be called and told that our youth are inherently sacred, valued, loved, cherished and no one has any right or reason to dim or put out their light.

An Open Letter to Officer Joe

Inspector William Matusiak
18th Precinct
306 W. 54th Street
New York, NY 10019

An Open Letter to the 18th Precint
Midtown North

Dear Inspector Matusiak:

A couple of months ago, I had the unfortunate opportunity to step inside of your precinct. It was unfortunate in that the situation that prompted the need to go to the police was difficult. For the second time in a month period, the same individual verbally attacked me in my home.

There was no danger of physical violence; indeed, if it ever came to that point, this particular man would be calling you for support, as the difference in our physicality is such that I could easily and heartily defend myself. Thank God my Mother raised me right.

I digress.

I am writing to you because the choice to walk the few short blocks to the precinct wasn’t an easy one. I am a person of color, and I am gay. Every aspect of my life, for my basic survival, has been influenced by a rule: steer clear of the police. While elementary school taught us the men and women in blue are there to help us, life taught me that more often than not the men and women in blue were enemies, people to avoid. As I grew older, I realized, of course, that for every Amadou Diallo incident, there were a thousand incidents of good cops doing the right thing, unfortunately, the bashings and beatings and Oscar Grant shootings are stories that make the news. And the stories happen frequently enough, and are substantiated often enough, that to err on the side of caution is to err towards a course of survival.

Let me be clear, I present to the world as a well educated, well groomed, individual. I have never been subject to harassment by the police. As a matter of fact, my one run in with the cops was leaving a bar and making the stupid decision to drive. I received a DUI, and I have to say that through the entire incident, from the arrest to the police house, the deputies on duty were not only kind but extremely supportive. Never before and never since have I had any violation on my record. My personal, direct experience with the police has been quite positive.

Yet not all of my indirect encounters have been quite so upbeat. I quite literally have been walking down the street, in between two black men that presented “thuggish,” and though these two men did not know each other, based on their appearance, they were called over and harassed by the police, while I was waved on.

My little brother, who is engaged with Hip Hop culture, was regularly targeted by the police as a teen for doing nothing more than looking a particular way and standing on our front porch.

So to choose to make a complaint, against a white man, as a person of color, and as a queer person in a domestic dispute (the man was my partner’s former partner), I was nigh on terrified to make a complaint that I had a legal and moral right to make.

Then I met Officer Joe.

In hindsight, I should have asked for Officer Joe’s last name and badge number. All I can tell you is that this particular evening, he was working at the front desk when we came in. I was with my current partner, and we approached the officer to ask him how to file a complaint. Officer Joe asked what happened, and I told him the story. Not only was he emphatic but also he directly asked my partner how the heck he could get away with having his current partner and ex-partner living together. He added a moment of levity to a difficult situation, and my assumption is that Officer Joe is straight, has received great training, and is comfortable in his skin. Officer Joe’s demeanor, engagement, and respect did more to change my perception of police than all of the posters hanging in the precinct that, frankly, come across as slightly condescending in their attempts to downplay the role of police violence.

Police violence against people of color and queer folks, particularly trans folks, is real and has a long history. Posters will not change the minds of those impacted by the actions of a few, rotten cops. The thoughtful, jovial, and forthright actions of individuals such as Officer Joe will.

I worked on a political campaign, once, for Deputy Chief of Police Lucy Gerold. Lucy was the first civilian Deputy Chief in Minneapolis. She then chose to go to the academy and now serves as the Third Precinct Captain. I once told Lucy that she was the first and only cop that I had ever met that I trusted. I now trust many more. I have confidence, at least, in the 18th Precinct. I appreciate the training that your officers have obviously received, and I apologize to you and your men and women for the fears I have had related to police, generated by the actions of a minority of officers, yet none the less projected onto folks that are just trying to do good work in our community.

I appreciate you all, and the work that you do. Please note, I will be posting this letter to my blog, www.myfeetonlywalkforward.blogspot.com. My blog receives roughly 2,000 to 3,000 readers per month. I am happy to be able to offer a story of cops doing good in a time when most of the news about people in uniform isn’t the best.

Thank you.

The Ex Files

In general, I am terrified of the police. In my life I have had a few occasions where I have had no choice but to engage with the law enforcement complex of the United States. The first time was during divorce proceedings for my Mother. The second time was in the 8th grade when I called the police because my best friend was on the phone with me, screaming, as her father hit her with a 2x4. The next time was when I joined the multitudes of Americans with a DWI (and I cried like a wee little baby the entire time). The last time was last night when I filed a police report documenting a sliver of the verbal harassment I have encountered from my roommate.

Almost a month ago to the day, I was attacked in my home. As I was preparing to lay down to sleep, David's ex, who is our roommate, entered the apartment with his current boyfriend Gary C. I said hello and let the guys know that I was going to lay down and take a nap. Frank, the roommate, began screaming at me about his right to play his music. I responded calmly, never raised my voice...then or as the conflict escalated. I asked him to keep it down, shut my bedroom door, and was followed into the studio. Over the course of the next 45 minutes I was screamed at for everything and anything that came into the man's head. I stayed calm. I asked them to leave the house. They both refused. Then, Gary, a man that I had met perhaps twice before...and had spent perhaps 10 minutes with total...began screaming at me calling me a slut and a whore. He told me I was a user and that he knew my type and kind. I remained calm. I responded to him with questions. I asked him what would make him think that I am a whore? How was I using David or anyone? He continued to reply accusing me of being a slut. Then suggesting that he would never sleep with me (I am sorry...but pot bellied gremlins are not my bag). Then, as he turned around and stomped out, he, a white Jewish man, accused me of being racist. At which point, I almost shit myself giggling.

Franklin I. continued to harangue me. And then, when he discovered Gary had left the apartment, his final response was to blame me for Gary's exit.

That is the abbreviated version of what happened a month ago. The details are much more gruesome. The result was that I calmly walked to the front room. I made sure the door was locked. David was out of town visiting his Mother. I finally got him on the phone, and I broke down. Never in my adult life had I ever been spoken to in such a manner let alone by two individuals that knew nothing about me. Academically I understood clearly that this was about Frank's jealousy. I understood that this was about Gary's anger that Frank was actually also fucking a man named Todd in North Carolina while lying and pretending that he was all about Gary. I knew that this was about Frank seeing David happy and doing things that David had always wanted to do with Frank but Frank would not allow or refused to participate. This was later confirmed during a period of calm when Frank came to me and admitted that he knew I made David happy and that he regrets not doing the things with David that David and I are now doing. A moment of clarity in his life. It did not last.

Several days ago, Frank had a very painful medical procedure. He is battling two potentially life threatening illnesses. The unfortunate truth is that the severity of this illnesses are a direct result of his ignoring medical advice. One illness has to do with with his liver. Years ago he was directed by his medical advisors to stop drinking. As late as December he was still drinking. I know. I saw him. Now, he is facing the failure of his liver and severe medical treatments to prevent that. I empathize with him and where he is.

The day he returned from his medical procedure David said to him that we would be as considerate as possible but that he needed to know that this is not a hospice. Frank sleeps on the couch next to the kitchen. David and I largely absented ourselves from the apartment into the late afternoon. We began preparing dinner...and, for the second time, were accused of chopping our vegetables too loudly. I was chopping mushrooms. I couldn't hear myself chopping let alone a human being on a couch on the other side of the room. But, I digress. Eventually Franklin got up, began slamming things around, and packed his backpack. At one point he was staring at me as if I had just slapped his Mama. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said no. He then left the house.

He came back the next night. Immediately he began accusing us of being inconsiderate. Then he suggested that it was actually me who was the belligerent chopper and that he could discern from his Wolverine like hearing the difference between David and I chopping.

That was the beginning of the inexorable slide to last night. For the last two days he had slammed every cabinet, door, and dish he possibly could. Neither David or I had bowed to his self pity, and this frustrated him. Finally, yesterday afternoon, shortly after he slammed a door behind me almost hitting me...we were all trying to figure out why about half the apartment had lost power. A chopping board fell out of the dish rack. I put it away. I guess I closed the door to the cabinet where the dish resided with a little bit too much force. Frank responded by slamming another cabinet as hard as he could.

I snapped.

I turned to him and asked him, and I quote, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He began screaming at me and telling me that I better not curse at him.

At that point I became a person I never wanted to see and had never seen before. He stepped into my face and I stepped forward. I told him exactly what I thought about him. I told him he was pathetic. I told him that he needed to leave and go where people wanted him. I told him to go and be with people who loved him. Mixed in with that were curse words. I was not proud, but I also was not sorry. I meant everything I said to the man.

I allowed myself to be pushed to a place where many of the hurtful and mean things that were said to me in my life were put back on this human being. I forgot that he was a human being and in so doing I lessened my own humanity.

That made me even angrier.

David was there. He saw it. He told Frank that Frank created the circumstance and situation where this was made possible. He did. But he didn't force my reaction. It was the reaction he wanted. I gave it to him. I will not apologize to him for it. But I will need to find a way to forgive myself for going to place that I know exists inside everyone but Jesus and maybe the Buddha...but I never thought to have to look at it directly in the face. The face was mine.

David and I left and went to the movies. We saw Star Trek which was FRICKIN' AWESOME! The special effects, the dialogue, the story, and the set up for a new franchise were great. They did Gene Roddenberry proud. I maintain that George Lucas should never write, produce, or create another space adventure ever. Leave it to the real master.

We got home to find Frank gone. The house was still without electricity in many parts. And Frank, in his infinite juvenile nature, had locked the channels on the tv and hidden the remote controls (did I mention that the man is 46...I am 31...GOOD FUCKING GOD).

David opened his email to find that Frank claimed that he had filed a police report and that he was not leaving this apartment without a court order.

He made a mistake. Lord he made a mistake.

My remorse at my behavior hardened into a razor point resolved. I put away my dinner, put on my shoes, jazzed up my hair and put on a sweater. I walked with David to the police station and filed a report myself. I filed a report that included the April 18th incident and last night. A man may elicit sympathy and pity when he shows regard for his own behavior and acknowledges his role in creating an untenable situation. But when a man maintains his victim status while perpetuating injustice, abuse and claims massive privilege...then...there is no mercy that is not found in justice. This man believes that threats and intimidation will work with me. The road I have walked in this world is one where struggle and roadblocks have been much more prevalent than escalators and sliding sidewalks.

I don't back down for shit.

The one ray of sunshine in all of this was actually the police. You heard me right: THE POLICE!

When we walked in last night to file the police report, Joe the Policeman was at the front desk. I swear I thought I was in an episode of NYPD Blue. I was waiting for Jimmy Smits to walk through with that perky butt of his. Instead we got Joe...who was awesome.

He leaned in and asked us what happened.

We told him. We told him what had gone down. We told him about our relationship. We told him about David's previous relationship with Frank. This is what Joe the Policeman said...

“Wait a minute. You are the current boyfriend...and the ex is living with you two? How the hell did you pull that one off, mister.” He said to David...a crooked smile on his face.

“I mean...that ain't a good situation...and now you two want him out.” I nodded and smiled.

Joe looked and David and shook his head.

“What wuz you thinkin?”

In the middle of the Midtown North police department, surrounded by the spirit of Amadou Diallo and Oscar Grant, I wanted to laugh...I mean laugh out loud and let out all the drama and all the pain and all the ugly.

“Listen guys...that is a no good situation. Go over there to the window. Those ladies will take your complaint. Sign the book. Good luck.”

Thanks Joe.

Idjku: Russia Has Lost Its Mind So I Be Strokin'

News Update: Jackass head of the GOP says that gay marriage will HURT small businesses...what the fuck?

There are those songs in the world...that when you hear them...they just raise your spirits...they get your feet to tappin' and put a smile on your face.

This morning, as I thumbed through the news...and heard about the 40-80 queer activists in Russia arrested and treated brutally for daring to put on a pride march...I had to stop...take a moment...put in my earbuds...and find some musical joy. Right now, as I muse on the complacency that so many queer folks in the U.S. feel...I am finding joy in Clarence Carter's Strokin'..and A Brand New Day from The Wiz. At the heart of Clarence Carter's song is a celebration of sex and sexuality for the joy of sex and sexuality...in a Brand New Day...Michael Jackson and Diana Ross, Nipsey Russell and Ted Ross are celebrating triumph over Evilene...the Wicked Witch of West Harlem...and the joy that freedom promises.

The beaten and jailed activists in Moscow took to the streets last night against the Wicked Witch of the Kremlin for the right to love (and fuck) freely.

In the United States, in most (though not all) places, we take our right to freely assemble for granted. We take to the streets for Pride festivals as a matter of course. We know that if our festivals and demonstrations are denied, we have legal recourse that we can pursue. The road we walk isn't always easy but, in every major U.S. city, Pride parades and Pride festivals are generally found listed on city websites and generally raise few institutional eyebrows...though there are almost always pockets of religious fundamentalists on a couple of corners waving flags.



Nowhere in the United States in the last two decades have we had to worry about violent reactions from state authorities to our queer pride marches and rallies (the same can not be said for other more radical demonstrations addressing issues of racial and economic justice...America is better than some places but it also has a long ass way to go).

Each year, I endure the diatribes by people like Andrew Sullivan...that rail against the drag queens and leather daddies...the tit slinging dykes on bikes and the fetish queens as they march proudly down Mainstreet U.S.A putting sex in liberation and liberation in sex right out in public view and swirling all up in a gender stew. My blood boils when the regressivists and assimilationists get indignant and demand that we put our celebration and joy back in the closet.

(His Eye is on the Sparrow just came on....”why should I feel discouraged...” Truthfully...I don't).

It is in times like these, when I am reminded of how small our little blue planet really is..that I remember why...almost every year since 1995 I have marched in a queer pride parade no matter where I happened to find myself. While Minneapolis may be a welcoming place, and it might be chic to be a chick with a dick in NYC...there are plenty of places on this planet...where it is not.

When we fight for our own liberation and make ourselves visible...we are not just showing up for ourselves or our community...we are showing up for those that we have no idea are watching. We show up for those that are watching from behind the window shades or behind the old Iron Curtain. We are marching on a global stage to proclaim to a global family that no matter where you are...you have a right to be who you were born to be...without out apology and without violent repression from your government.

We take up arms, internationally, against the Word Trade Organization and unchecked globalization. We cry out against Buddhist monks being jailed and beaten in Tibet. We screamed loudly and with one voice against apartheid in South Africa, and when Slobodan Milosevic decide genocide was an answer....we posed a new question and went to the aid of Kosovo. It is about damn time that we show the same solidarity with those struggling for the right to love and fuck whosoever they choose without regard to gender or sexual identity whether or not they are on the next block or on the next continent.

This week has seen signing of a bill by the President of Uruguay to allow queers to serve in that nation's military. The NY State Assembly passed a queer marriage bill. And Russia struck down with a great fury on rights demonstrators. These things are part of one grand justice tapestry. When the weave is beautiful, but one part of the tapestry snags, the beauty of the whole is reduced. My heart goes out the Russian queer community. But, as Russia turns more and more to partnership with the European Union, it is incumbent on the EU to hold Russia to the same standards it holds its member states...namely requiring the elimination of state sanctioned oppression of queer and genderqueer folks.

Europe can not enjoy the immense resources of Russia while ignoring the human rights abuses of the Russian government and maintain any standing as a human rights crusader in other areas of the world. When economic interests trump human interests the gates of Hell open wider and the Devil rolls out the red carpet to all those involved and Heaven shudders on its foundations.

We are one family...let's act like one.

Poem: Choke

I wrote this poem about three years ago. A friend of mine at the time was going through a period of significant loss. Her brother and cousin were murdered. Her birth mother died, and her niece was raped all within a year time period. I was living across the country from her at the time, and I watched from afar as she struggled. This I wrote for her.

Choke

It takes her again
wraps stiff fingers around her throat
chokes her until the tears run
burning channels into her cheeks
reopening half healed runnels
coffin-nails have left on her face
she calls me gasping
why
too much
too many
why her
why him
why them
bang bang
they found him in a lake
they found her in a ditch
he was murdered
she was murdered
why
why
why
the violence overshadowed by
the mist that leaders her voice
sodden from her throat
she exhales between questions
I don’t have the answers she needs
the ones she deserves
can’t loosen the grip of too much time
cut short
wrapping around her throat
can’t breath enough for her
can feel the damp
as it pours out of my phone
fills my mouth
runs out of my eyes
mother-brother-aunt-cousin
two killed
unsolved crimes
two taken too early
all died
this year and last year
too few years between them
too little time for healing
while prayers and prairie dirt fill the holes
they left behind
we’ve sat up nights talking
trying to make sense
of senselessness
of grief
of acceptance with no understanding
while the reaper keeps on reaping
scything through native lives
her life
cutting
cold voice laughing
hollow
like lines dug in her face
hollow
echoing
empty
open wounds festering
fearing that she might use alcohol to sterilize
knowing its ability to cauterize
too far away
too far away
to fly to her
pry death away
breath for her when she can’t
pray for her when she can’t
promise her what I can’t
that it’s over
when my promises
are drowned out
by the laughing of the reaper

Poem: These Streets

I wote this poem a while back. Sometime early last year.

These Streets

I’ve been down these streets before
walked them so many times
my feet need no directions
know every sidewalk crack
houses
weeping flakes of paint like sunburned skin
vibrancy a long gone memory
these colors are barely surviving
but the patterns left behind tell stories
plainly
there for anyone that can read the street patois
the pig Latin of the ghetto
that gives young eyes the gift of x-ray vision
lets them see the roots beneath the sidewalk
through the sagging sheets hanging in the windows
beyond the rib cages of yard dogs
skin stretched tight
kinship found in hungry canine eyes

I’ve been down these streets before
walked down t hem so m any times
watched dreams cashed for rent money
watched rent money cashed for a dream high
watched the junky prophet proclaim prophecy
whispered in his ears by the monkey on his back
toothy, grinning, picking hopes like lice
lips smacking
the monkey savors each one, whispers and waves
as the street opens up
swallows them whole
I step over the chalk outline
the street grave marker
requiescat en pace
a memorial
until the next rain
or morning piss

I’ve been down these streets before
seen single mothers press bottles of Similac
into mouths screaming umbilical rage
at fathers that found peace in fists pounded into pregnant bellies
into the girl-next-door, high school sweethearts, white picket fences
that never lined these streets
lined fantasies in heads
nobody told us that white picket fences were meant to keep us out
loan denied
bad credit
pickets turned into red lines
by bodies hurled against them
fences made of white steel
reinforced
indivisible
liberally distributed
one nation
divided in two
all for some
and little for us

I’ve been down these streets before
cuz these streets pave my mind
a city built and peopled by our fears
the can’t dos, and the can nots
the not qualified enoughs
the you speak so eloquently
the relapses
the system tracking
the racial profiling
the unemployment
on these streets there ain’t no schools
only prisons
on these streets every home is broken
and no way to fix them
on these streets segregation has been perfected
it is illegal to sit with yourself
high treason
to ask yourself why
premeditated murder
to come up with your own answers
sedition
to better yourself
your only choices
drugs, jail or death
all available without a prescription

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-2008

Happy International Women's Day

To all of my women identified friends and family, whether you were born female bodied or have embraced an identity that encompasses that of a woman, I wish you a year with greater strides towards gender freedom and gender liberation. The power to walk freely in this world, without shackles and weights attached to the body you demonstrate, is a gift freely given to those called men, but those called men also fail to feel the invisible restraints created as a counterbalance to the awesome oppressions we have visited and maintain on bio and genderqueer women. The impact of sexism and heterosexism is felt widely and broadly without regard to the genitalia found below your beltline. But overwhelmingly the violence and oppression that maintains the power structure of sexism is targetted at women and the genderqueer. On this International Women's Day, it is my wish that we all remember that our liberations are truly tied up together with one another and that each of us has a deep and abiding role to play in freeing ourselves and rejecting the power of privilege that maintains cycles of violence and continued oppression of the women in this world. Much love.