Brandon's Facebook International Haiku Day

I have decided that today is Brandon's Day of Haiku for Friends. The following haikus were wall posts on Facebook today:

For David Berube:

Making David laugh
like a japanese school girl
today is my goal

For Christy Namee Eriksen:

Ginger cookies are
post-modern euphemisms
for some crazy shit

For Darcie Elia:

Moving to Oakland,
I got my suck or sit card
caveat emptor

For Brian Morse:

We made out one time
but once is never enough
with cutie femme boys

For Carter Klenk:

We should make babies
with giant afrotrastic hair
to rule the world.

Girl, out of control
GLSEN should have given me
a job with Carter

For Rodrigo Sanchez Chavarria:

I will train your girls
into deadly assassins
they work for me now.

When I move away
I will miss you/Nubia
come visit me soon.

PRESS RELEASE: MARIPOSAS

MARIPOSAS: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry
978-0-9796457-9-2, $19.95 For Immediate Release

FLORICANTO PRESS ANNOUNCES
MARIPOSAS: A MODERN ANTHOLOGY OF QUEER LATINO POETRY edited by EMANUEL XAVIER

In September 2008, Floricanto Press will publish a ground-breaking poetry collection entitled, Mariposas: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry edited by Emanuel Xavier. The collection will feature the work of 17 poets from across the United States and Buenos Aires including: Francisco Aragon, Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano, Brandon Lacy Campos, Dino Foxx, Andres “Chulisi” Rodriguez, Urayoan Noel, Yosimar Reyes, Robert Ortiz, Walter Viegas, Joe Jimenez, Will Sierra, Rane Arroyo, Pol Ajenjo, Daniel Torres, Carlos T. Mock, M.D., Xuan Carlos Espinoza-Cuellar and Emanuel Xavier. Featured poems will be published in English and Spanglish with several translated into or from Spanish.

“Just as blood curses through our queer Latino veins, so does a complex and sometimes contradictory history. The words captured in this volume of poetry perfectly capture a moment in time in which we all are in flux and yet still very much grounded in the moment. Personally, these poems speak to my being, my sexuality, my erotic desires, my future hopes and my wishes for new generations and yet they also stand for the danger that those words might also be fragile and easily forgotten. It is up to the reader to make these words count for something. And, simply said, it's just an amazing and moving collection of poems that truly represents who we are as queer Latinos at this crucial moment in time.”
-Andrés Duque, LGBT rights activist, http://blabbeando.blogspot.com

"An 800-year-old tradition of Hispanic poetry gets a substantial augmentation, and at the same time, a wondrous makeover, with the rich, varied, sensual, often bi-lingual work in this collection. It helps that the translations by Xavier are so true; and that the poets amassed from all over the Americas , are mas o menos gay in subject matter and attitude."
- Felice Picano, author

“Whether straight, bisexual, closeted or openly gay, Latino voices have made a deep mark in the poetry scene. Despite distinction in style, dialect, and customs within the Latino mosaic, our voices have been unified by a determination to be heard. Much like poetry in general, whether academic or self-taught, the need to express ourselves cannot be restricted within borders. Whatever language transferred between pen and paper, it is imperative to share our experiences with the world at large.”
-Emanuel Xavier, from the Introduction

Emanuel Xavier is author of two collections of poetry, Pier Queen and Americano, and a fiction novel, Christ Like. He also edited Bullets & Butterflies: queer spoken word poetry and selected finalists for Best Gay Erotica 2008. His work has appeared in many publications including The James White Review, Genre, Long Shot, Virgins, Guerrillas & Locas, and Queer & Catholic. He is the recipient of the Marsha A. Gomez Cultural Heritage Award and a New York City Council citation for his many contributions to gay and Latino culture.

For an advanced review copy, please write to Emanuel Xavier at letters@emanuelxavier.com. For environmental purposes, a PDF copy of the full manuscript could be emailed to read directly from a computer. PDF copies may also be printed or mailed upon request.

http://www.floricantopress.com/
http://www.emanuelxavier.com/

A Prayer for Luca Peluca Head

I have left Minneapolis exactly four times as an adult. The longest length of time that I have left and stayed away is just over two years. The shortest amount of time has been 9 months, on two separate occassions. This time, I am moving to Oakland, and I feel in my gut that this move is for real.

Actually, let me take that back. The reality that I am moving has not really set home for me. But the reality of the move, the way in which I am engaging with it, and the preparations I am making around the move all point that this is a life move and not a move just about a job.

As I am saying my goodbyes, this week almost every night is dedicated to dinner with a loved one in order to say my farewells, I am struck by the people to whom I will not be able to say a personal goodbye. In particular, Susan Raffo, Rocki Simoes, and Luca Raffo-Simoes. Susan, Rocki, and Luca are off in Portugal for the summer. They left about a month ago, and so it has been about a month since I have seen them. Gone are the summer days when I would run into Luca in the morning playing outside of her house or the afternoons when I would walk by Susan's and catch Rocki doing yard work while Susan was up in the loft working on a grant proposal. The Raffo-Simoes family is my mini-family in the hood. When life sends me celebrations or struggles, Susan is usually one of the first people to know about it. When I have life questions that I need help answering, Susan is usually the person that I call to help me figure it out. When I want to remind myself that life can be simple even at its most complicated, I find Luca and we have a grass fight or I douse her with the garden house or she uses me as her personal jungle gym.

One of the reasons I adore both Susan and Rocki is that they are extremely insightful. They both often are able to articulate things about me that I am not able to articulate about myself. They are family. That is why when either of them asks me for anything, I do whatever I can in order to be there for them. For Susan, it is usually a walk and a talk or a chat about this or that. With Rocki, it's helping out with the Host Home program or sitting at a table at a festival. If neither of them were able to provide even one more moment of wisdom in my life, I would still have a lifetime of repayment.

I told Susan and Rocki a year or so ago, that Luca is going to be an important person in the world. Not in that....”ohhh your daughter is lovely and is going to do something good with her life.” No, I honestly believe that something Luca is going to do when she is older is going to radically alter this world for the better. And I will count myself lucky if I get to be there to see it.
Luca and Susan and Rocki are off having great adventures in Europe. Luca is having the type of life experiences and conversations with her family that any of us would be more than blessed to have. Salaam away little Luca...you, and Susan, and Rocki are in my prayers too.

A Prayer for Luca

May God fill your days with the love of Mama and Mai,
with grassfights and sunflowers,
with Taiko drums and Powderpups

May God send you more joy than you can handle,
the gift of wisdom from both your Mothers,
the gift of cooking from Iara,
the gift of creating something new and beautiful from the old from Kelly

May God send you many challenges,
love when the challenges seem too hard
patience when things don't work out the way you planned
and strength during the times when you find out that what you planned isn't what you really wanted

May you sleep well, dream well, and continue to move through the world with a child's eyes even as you grow up...

God bless you and your family.

Retaliation: A New Fragrance Line by Brandon

So, I am thinking of starting a new body mist line called Retaliation. The brand will have numerous fragrances from you which can you choose to meet your particular needs. So far I have six items in the line, all in small convenient binaca style bottles with a nozzle that can be adjusted for mist or straight line concentrated shots. It fits conveniently in your manbag or in that cute little pocket inside the front pocket of those new diesel jeans in which your butt looks like Brad Pitt's.

The four fragrances are:

Bitch-Be-Gone: A little concentrated hydrochloric acid for those "Bitch, I know you just didn't" moments where a misting to the diva's face is better than Christmas.

Troll-Be-Gone: Just a dash of concentrated skunk musk in the eye of that big bad troll will help him learn that trolls belong under bridges.

Manstealer: A unique blend of compressed cyanide and nightshade vapors for the man-stealing-power-bottom sleeping on your side of the bed, a light sprtizing of this as you walk past him will leave him ass up forever.

Drop Dead Gorgeous: The biochemists at Vengeful Diva have come up with this delightful blend of completely organic, biodegradable fast acting anthrax that has been crossed with the Ebola virus. For those moments when you walk into a party and someone is wearing the same shirt you have on. He may look better in the shirt than you do, but now he's dead.

The Boy Is Mine: This complex construction of pheremones, exstasy, and GHB when applied correctly, will turn all his No's into Yes's.

Scene Stealer: This innocent looking body spray, in our convenient evening gown clutch size, is actually a grenade. That evil Hot Tranny Mess may have won the pageant title, but you are going to close the show out with a bang.

Look for these soon at a Target or Al-Qaeda sleeper cell near you!

Brought to you by Vengeful Diva, Inc. and it's CEO, Brandon "Precious" Lacy Campos.

I am a Surthrivor

On Friday night, I got a tremendous phone call. I was called and offered the position of Grassroots Media Policy Advocate at the Center for Media Justice in Oakland, CA. By the end of next month, I will be a resident of the Bay area. This is the change I didn't know I was waiting for.

Several months ago I wrote a piece, for myself, about home. In it I acknowledged that the place where you grew, unless you can keep your life dynamic, fresh, and full of new learning opportunities, can become a place of stasis. It becomes a place where your default mode is coast. It is place where people love you and want to take care of you because it's home, and they are family, and family takes care of family. At a certain stage in a person's life, when an individual has centered himself, has learned life's major lessons, and has learned how to truly live, that is ok. As a matter of fact, that is welcome. When a person still has growing too do. When a person needs to learn how to not only stand up but also to stand tall, then home is a only a refuge for the afraid and will, in time, become a jail cell with velvet bars. Minneapolis has become that place for me.

There are some realities that I have to own. Because of the life I was dealt as a child and because of choices I made as an adult, I only know how to survive. I only know how to live from paycheck to paycheck. I thrive in crisis and create crisis when I should enjoy peace. My work life, which has had rough spots overall is the only place where I am able to not only survive but to thrive. But that ends now. With this move to Oakland, I am done with survival. I have a plan for surthrival. These are things I plan on accomplishing in my first 60 days in the Bay.

Brandon's Surthrival Plan

1. Find a CMA Meeting in the East Bay. Attend Weekly.
2. Take a budgeting and financial planning course.
3. Attend weekly services at Glide Memorial Methodist Church
4. Audition for the Glide choir
5. Take a yoga class at least once a week and work out at least four days a week.
6. Take a meditation class to learn how to self-center.
7. Make an appointment with a Bay area ASO and join a Poz social/support group.
8. Finish at least two more chapters in my book.
9. Meet at least ten people that are not related to my job.
10. Make three friends that are not folks from work.
11. Do something at least once a day to actively love myself.
12. Find a therapist that is going to kick my mental ass.

From now on I pledge to do the things that I have been afraid to do. I will live with fear but I will live fearlessly.
From now until I die, I will live with addiction but I will not be an addict.
I will accept that the man I see in the mirror is me and that I am not the man I see in my head.
I will accept love where it is given, honor that gift, and give it in return, starting with myself.
I will be accountable to my friends, my family, and my community, and I will require accountability in return.
I will survive only when survival is necessary. At all other times I will live and celebrate living.

Hip Hop or Fuck You White Lady

There are two parts to this posting. The first part is an email you will read that was posted to the Minneapolis Issues List. The Minneapolis Issues List is a list that deals with political, social, community issues in the city. Every elected official from the city of Minneapolis either actively watches and posts to the list or has staff that watches the list for him/her. Anyone who is a player in Minneapolis political circles also is enaged with or at least knows about the list. More than once I have been at a mixer or a political event and someone has read my name tag and mentioned that he or she has heard of me through the Issues Forum. Most of the time the list is peppy and engaging with some heated exchanges. In the last couple of days, there have been a series of crazy postings by white folks living in north Minneapolis (heart of the black community). One of the latest posts by a white man who also happens to be an idiot, basically showed his racism by pigeonholing all folks wearing hip hop style dress as drug dealers, gang bangers, and theives. Me being me I called him on his shit.

The first email you are going to read is a response to my email to Jim Graham by a woman name Megan Goodmundson. The only good thing about her is that I have never met her and I hope to never meet her. My response to her follows her email:

Let's just cut the ultra-liberal hug-a-thug b.s. that contributes to the dysfunction of our inner cities across America. Jim Graham's categorization of dress or demeanor is not racism - it's behaviorism - behavior is not a 'protected class' but rather a main tool in our society for expressing and communicating one's own character out loud to fellow human beings, and for other's to receive that communication and presentation of the type of character and human being one is professing to the world. Jim should be in no way shape or form, shamed for being brave enough to make an outloud reality based statement, and the shaming that is taking place is part of the ultra-politically-correct environment that allows criminals to be shielded from society's policing of norm's and value's that shape appropriate behavior and discourage harmful, inappropriate and dangerous behavior. If Jim was 'racist' I highly doubt he is going to choose to live in a highly diversified neighborhood, as i t would just eat away at his soul.Let it be very clear - the over sized white tee shirt phenomenon is another one of those hip-hop glorification of gangster life style. The white tee shirt was embraced by street thugs that wanted to be non-descript to law enforcement. It was/is the street thugs choice of clothing because when a large majority of men wearing over sized white tee's are walking the streets of a neighborhood and one of them is engaging in criminal activity - there is very little to describe that person to authorities and distinguish them from every one else. Just sort of their own little way of getting a jab in at law enforcement. Sort of a ha-ha whatcha-gonna do now type statement. Some where along the line, like hip hop culture often does, a criminal life style element is embraced by non-criminals and glorified, for whatever reason. There are many styles within a hip hop culture and each and every person should know that if you choose to look, act, dress and behave like a street thug, you are going to be treated like a street thug. It's your choice to do so, so be fully aware that you will be judged on your dress, style and demeanor so don't complain about it later. I could go on and on about the destruction of hip hop culture on the young demographics - the degradation of women, the glorification of criminal life style - the music videos with guns, drugs etc, the celebration of a promiscuous life style. Or the video I saw with the lyrics and action shots that were all about 'we don't sell drugs, we just rob the drug dealers at gun point and that's how we make our hustle'. It should not be celebrated, glorified or promoted and the continuation to do so is probablly the most destructive thing working against the youth of our urban neighborhoods. Neighbors like Jim G. who encounter people walking by or driving by will often sense some sort of energy or vibe of what that person is eminating off in to the universe, and a gut-feeling helps us sense that this is an OK person, this is a suspicious person, etc. That is our in-born instinct to help us survive. To all the hip-hop lovers that are going to be offended - Don't waste energy for calling out someone who speaks out of reality, put that energy into developing young hip-hop lovers into the styles of hip-hop that do not glorify and celebrate the criminal element. And warn them that certain outward appearances and practices are going to work against them and be extremely hard to overcome and that is the hard reality of our world today, so don't burden yourself with more obstacles to overcome, but rather engage in the types of dress and demeanor that are going to scream out loud "I am an upstanding character".

-Megan G.
-Jordan Neighborhood

And now for my response, fasten your seatbelts ladies and gentlepeeps:

Megan:

You haven't even the remotely slightest clue as to what you are speaking about. I mean not even the teeniest little margin or concept of even a relational truth to hip-hop culture. Hip-hop culture does NOT equal gangster culture. While there are interactions between the two because of the very real various survival expressions that exist at the street level, to equate one with the other is to equate....beets and cranberries...they may look the same on the Thanksgiving table but the style, substance, and flavor are completely different.

Your statements again are a majoritarian racist conception of a liberation theology that you just don't understand.You want to know real hip hop and how real hip hop is changing lives....check out Toki Wright and YO! The Movement right here in Minneapolis. You want to talk about real hip hop. Check out local queer hip hop artist Tori Fixx who is nationally known and his hip hop challenges misogyny, heterosexisms, homophobia...you want to talk about real hip hop, let's talk about old school Queen Latifah singing about UNITY, lets't talk about RUN DMC and Jam Master Jay, let's talk about local artists Dessa Darling and DOOMTREE, you want to talk about real hip hop, LEARN THE HISTORY OF HIP HOP on the streets of the Bronx and Brooklyn rappers and artists talking about liberation, talking about getting out of the hood and making something of themselves or staying in the hood and making the hood a place to live. You want to talk about real hip hop talk about B-Girl B at Intermedia Arts that celebrates the influence of women in hip hop and the way it shapes, reshapes and celebrates women's lives. Let's talk about the Hip Hop Congress a national political organization aimed at radically reshaping the politics of this country by enganging young people.

You haven't the slightest awareness or clue one about what you are talking about. But you are showing a woeful committment to ignorance that borderlines on a willfully chosen racist dullness that is shameful.

In the late 80s and early 90s when commercialism and CAPITALISM decided they could make a dollar off of bastardizing hip hop, gangsta rap emerged. That was never about a people's movement or hip hop that was about making a dollar for largely white owned West coast music labels. And even with that, there were still hip hop resisters like TuPac Shakur that talked cogently about his life growing up on the streets, the reality of his mother who was a crackhead, and how even in the heart of all that pain, subjugation, degredation, and oppression there could still be beauty. Let me be clear, attempting to talk about, pigeonhole, and add behavioral judgements based on superficial outward appearances that are linked ro race (whether you want to believe in race or not) is a key element of racism. If you are white, which adds power to the equation of race prejiduce, then, for sheezy, racism is showing its ugly face.

Before you attempt to post anything else to this list or speak anywhere else, make sure you know what you are talking about. It sucks to learn the hard way that you are talking out of the side of your neck. Or maybe, just maybe, you are having Janus moment, and one of your other faces decided to show itself.

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Midtown/Phillips

Life According to Grey's Anatomy

I have been sick for the last three days, so it is only fitting that I spend my time watching Grey's Anatomy. Why is it fitting you ask? Because I plan on getting better by visual osmosis. I have a plan.

There was a moment in the first episode of season three when a patient discovers that his wife is dead. He asks Miranda if she believes in an afterlife. She tells the guy that in the line of work she does she must believe in a beautiful place, free of suffering that you go to after you leave this world.

I so fundamentally agree with that statement that it transcends faith into truth. Perhaps because I have escaped into fantastic worlds of my own creation as a means to escape some of the harsh realities of this world. Perhaps because I have seen amazing acts of charity and kindness done by everyday people. Perhaps because I have experienced moments when the only explanation for a particular life moment is so much more than a conincidence. Perhaps because I have been surrounded by people of faith that live their lives as they see fit, they do not buy into the proseltyzing hype of the church but they have a firm faith that everything, in the end, is for a greater reason. Who knows. But I do know that I have never doubted the exists of a the next life or of God.

I have no idea what that next world is. I have no idea what God is. I have no idea of what happens next, but I believe that there is something next, just as I believe that the world is changing for the better even while it struggles with its own darkness. The world is us, the struggle is us, and I believe we have as much time to deal with our own inner darkness as we need until we are ready for that next place. Does that mean I believe in reincarnation. Maybe. But it is more likely that if we do not learn what we need to learn in this life, we go to another place—not Hell or Purgatory---but another life where the rules are different and perhaps will be ones that will helps us come to a better understanding of the higher purpose for which we were meant.

Cousin Jimmy II

I decided today that I am just going to stop answering the phone when my Mother calls. In general, when I call her everything is fine. But when she calls, she never has a damn good thing to report.

Today she called to tell me that the round of chemo that Jimmy just went through didn't work.
I was sitting in the office fighting like hell not to cry. And since, when I try to avoid my emotions they instantly morph into a hideous rage, I found myself wanting to smash my cell phone into the desk top until LG was permanently imprinted into the fromica. Fuck cell phones, fuck bad news, and fuck leukemia. I left the office a little while ago, because I knew I had to get somewhere where I could reset.

On the bus ride to Juscha's pad, the only outlet I had to engage emotionally was through music, ironically the same LG phone that I had wanted to utterly destroy earlier in the day. As I sat listening to I Drove All Night (both the Celine and Cyndi Lauper versions), I again found myself about to cry. I live with a disease that could eventually kill me. I also know that if I had to I could run a marathon and that I have had no discernable change in physical health even with a compromised immune system thanks to HIV. My cousin, who until several months ago was fit as a horse, finds it hard to get up the energy to get the fuck out of bed. What. The. Fuck.

In my world things don't happen this way. Bad things that happen to good people blow my fucking mind. I made stupid ass choices and because of my stupid ass choices, I ended up with a disease. Yes indeed, I had the shit beaten out of me growing up and because of my childhood I ended up with a whole mess of mental health issues that helped me fast and quick down the road to those bad choices---but in the end I still made them.

Jimmy is suffering from some shit that he in no way earned or played a part in getting. Again. What. The. Fuck.

I am going to have a God damn anuerism right here on this futon...and I hope I do. Cuz I am hitting the other side kicking ass and calling names. St. Peter...fuck you bitch...KAPOW! Archangel Michael...suck my dick...BAM! St. Francis...you bitch ass pansy....CRACK! I am taking out every saint, cherub, seraphim, and archangel I can find. And then I'm heading up to the Big House to have some words with JC and his pops.

Basically. I'm pissed. And I am going to take nap. Pray for Jimmy ya'll. He needs it. And my prayers are to full of other words right now for God to hear me.

Thanks To You Blog Readers and Femme Mafia Shout Out!

I thought that I would write an appreciation to my blog readers. I am always surprised at the number of people that actual wade their way through the largerly unrelated exhortations that I spew out onto the web. I am always tickled when folks leave comments on things that I have written, but I have come to realize, from passing comments from folks I see in the real world, that many of my friends are out there reading away. Thank you to you all! And thank you to my mystery readers in Israel. Shalom y'all. Shalom.

Just as a side note, I hung out with folks from the Minneapolis chapter of Femme Mafia last night. We had an absolute blast. After a meeting in the park where we shared some stir fried bok choy and a couple of salads passed around, we all piled in at Jack and Nicole's pad and watched Dirty Dancing outside in the backyard on a projector screen (thanks Jayel!). We were all starving, and the little bags of baby carrots were not quite cutting it. At one point, several of us were praying for Jesus to send down sausage pizza from Heave to sate our hunger. Jesus wasn't taking calls at that time, unfortunately.

Over the course of the evening we made many a lusty comment about Patrick Swayze's tight little bum, there was group consensus that the dirty dancing lesbian and gay twink couple were our favorite, and, of course, there was general agreement that Patrick put the Sway in Swayze...aka...he's a big old mo. Cuz...nobody puts baby in a corner.

After such a great evening, there is only one thing to say....TATTERS!

Thanks To You Blog Readers and Femme Mafia Shout Out!

I thought that I would write an appreciation to my blog readers. I am always surprised at the number of people that actual wade their way through the largerly unrelated exhortations that I spew out onto the web. I am always tickled when folks leave comments on things that I have written, but I have come to realize, from passing comments from folks I see in the real world, that many of my friends are out there reading away. Thank you to you all! And thank you to my mystery readers in Israel. Shalom y'all. Shalom.

Just as a side note, I hung out with folks from the Minneapolis chapter of Femme Mafia last night. We had an absolute blast. After a meeting in the park where we shared some stir fried bok choy and a couple of salads passed around, we all piled in at Jack and Nicole's pad and watched Dirty Dancing outside in the backyard on a projector screen (thanks Jayel!). We were all starving, and the little bags of baby carrots were not quite cutting it. At one point, several of us were praying for Jesus to send down sausage pizza from Heave to sate our hunger. Jesus wasn't taking calls at that time, unfortunately.

Over the course of the evening we made many a lusty comment about Patrick Swayze's tight little bum, there was group consensus that the dirty dancing lesbian and gay twink couple were our favorite, and, of course, there was general agreement that Patrick put the Sway in Swayze...aka...he's a big old mo. Cuz...nobody puts baby in a corner.

After such a great evening, there is only one thing to say....TATTERS!

Love Poem

I have a very dear friend that I met my first week of high school in Ms. Simon's sculpture class. Nicole Harris was a year older than me and and shared the work table next to me with another Nicole...Nicole McGill. When I first met Nicole Harris I hated the woman. She was mean and wicked, and I wanted to sculpt a house and drop it on her. Then steal her fierce ass shoes. She and Nicole lied to me and told me that they had the same Dad but different Moms. My gullible ass believed them. At the time, if you would have told me that that 16 years later that she and I would still be friends, or that I would spend more than one Thanksgiving and Christmas with her entire family, I would have sculpted a house and dropped it on you too. It wasn't until I was a sophomore that she and I became friends. We both competed on the speech team together. She was the shining star of the team, and, with all humility, I was the up and coming speech wiz at old Henry High. Over the next two years, we became closer, until, my junior year I realized two things: I was in love with Nicole Harris, and I did not want to have sex with her in any way. Before that point I knew I had attraction to guys but I wasn't sure if I did to girls. Nicole sealed the deal for me. I emotionally loved her, I physically wanted a guy from the soccer team. I was a big old mo.

That's the background behind my newest poem.


Love Poem
For Noodle

For her I used to write love poems
mornings spent before sunrise
stargazing
she was my Polaris
the magnetic north that drew
my spirit towards pen & paper
poetry was the only way to reconcile love without lust
desire to have and to be without desire to be with

For her I used to write love poems
I could not write for myself
I didn't believe love was for me
so I gave it to her
hastily scribbled odes & lines
wrapping her in soft folds of adolescent adoration
she awakened my self-awareness
as they crowned her homecoming queen
as they handed her roses
I sat in the bleechers
reached for poetic razors
surgical phrases
thrust into my thorassic cavity
with a reverant ripping
from across the crowded room silently
I handed her my heart
I offered her my pulse
begged her to take the poetry
take the pain
I begged her to tell me how I could love her but not want her
how poetry could be serrated t-cells sawing at my bones
how every day I committed suicide on paper
pulling tape worms from my gut
slamming their writhing bodies into tragic attempts to digest
the secret that stood between my cock
and my heart

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-14 June 2008

Obama and Me

I work in the political field. I believe that I have a fairly sophisticated analysis of progressive politics. I have worked for almost 15 years in a wide range of political efforts including radical grassroots social change as far right as conventional electoral politics (ranging from the Democratic Party to the Independence and Green Parties). Each year, I have gained a clearer and clearer image of the world I would like to see and a better understanding of some of the tools that will get us there. I also know that reform will only take us so far. At some point, whether we prepare for it or not, a revolution will again hit this land mass---and I know that with preparation that can be a democratically based revolution made through the creative use of just democratic practice that acknowledges and compensates for oppression or it will be a bloody revolution with an outcome that is unknown but will, most assuredly, result in great repression.

I know that Barack Obama is, at best, a strategic choice for moving forward with some of the reforms that are necessary to make a democratic revolution possibly. I know that on the great and most pressing issues of the day: war, capitalism, systems of power based in oppression, American hegemony and empire, a President Obama will be more palatable than a Republican president but he will be no messiah signaling the end of those societal cankers.

Yet, with all my heart and soul, I pray that the next President of the United States is Barack Obama.

This evening, I met with two of my co-artists from the group Los Palabristas (www.myspace.com/palabristas). We met to record some of our poetry. I recorded two poems tonight: Stump Speech, which you can find on this blog, and Big Sam, which I will post shortly. One poem is my response to this election year and this country in general. The other poem is a story about my family's history as slaves. I then logged onto my computer and saw an ad that asked the question, “Will Barack Obama be the first African American president?,” and I felt the spirit of Big Sam draw in breath.

Whether or not Obama will be a history maker in terms of presidential achievements to me, at this time, is a hope but not the point. For me, right now, in this moment with a deeply racialized anger sitting just beneath my skin, I want Barack Obama in the White House for the simple reason that 50 years ago, the prevailing attitude of the majority of people living in this country was not only would no black person ever sit in the White House but that no black person had the intelligence, integrity, or ability to do so. The day that President Obama takes his oath of office will not be the day that all past wrongs against people of African descent will be reconciled. Most definitely not. But it will be the day when the spirit of all black people on either side of the ocean, will have the chance to utter a collective fuck you to those that once consider us beasts of burden lacking a soul and having a mind that was akin to that of a child.

I know, academically, that Western civilization owns its existence to Africa. I know that some of the greatest social and scientific thought and achievement of the modern and ancient world has been created by people of African descent. I know that when Columbus invaded America there were empires in Africa of such wealth and learning that they would not allow European scholars to teach in their universities and European monarchs were weak barbarians in comparison. But the academic knowing of my history and its strength is not sufficient to overcome a spiritual malaise that was beaten into my ancestors at the end of a whip and choked into them at the end of a rope.

Barack Obama represents the greatest and most powerful “kiss my ass” to the legacy of racism, slavery, and genocide in these several states.

And for that reason, I will be casting my vote for Senator Obama on November 4, 2008.

Big Sam

For Big Sam Haynes, my Great-Great-Great Granddaddy

I got an email the other day from Miss Carol Haynes, a new found cousin. She wrote, “The Nickells were the family who owned us when we were slaves, and while most of us got free Big Sam is still in chains.”

Big Sam was a good nigger man according to the chapter called “The Darkies,” in the Nickell family history. Legend has it that Big Sam was the best team driving man in Greenbrier County.
One day he turned a team of horses around in a narrow alleyway and a white man offered to pay top dollar to buy that good nigger.

And I wonder.

I wonder if Big Sam looked at that white man and thought, “it would be so easy to kill him to turn loose this team and run him over, pound his white skin into the dirty stone of this street, turn the horses in circle after circle until his pale pink skin is dark, but not like mine. His skin will be bruised, dirty, the color of shit ground into snow. It would never be, could never be the deep shades of ebony, onyx, sun kissed carbon that is my holy African inheritance.”

I wonder if he thought those things, while he Sambo-ed, and through gritted teeth, words digging double hands into the flesh of his tongue as he said, “thank you, suh.”

Miss Carol’s email continued said she’d spoken with a Nickell descendant that said, “Big Sam was such a good nig…negro man that my sister keeps a picture of him on her wall.”

And I wonder.

I wonder if Big Sam’s ghost looks out of that photo, his spirit raging at 150 years of hanging, swinging by an invisible noose, watching television and screaming at the Jena Six, that professor at Columbia, that pick up truck in Alabama, at all the nooses visible and invisible hanging around the necks of his people his children his familial diaspora. Does he call on Yemaya and Oshun, Legba and Ogun, does he demand that Jesus climb down from his cross and take up his Father’s old testament solutions, fire, salt, boils, locusts, the bellies of whales. Does his spirit refuse to kneel before the throne of God because his knees were bent for too damn long. Does he stand outside of Heaven’s gates refusing to come in until his picture comes down?"

And I wonder.

If he has found the peace that passes my understanding, if he can laugh and cry at the circumstances of his life, if he can turn the other cheek, if he can tell me how to calm the fire raging deep within me in places dark, wet, primal that I never knew existed until the day I learned the name of our former slave masters, until I had a target for my sometimes inarticulate pen, the why behind my need to sing spirituals not of escaping but taking back the spirit beaten, hung, swung, raped, worked, and sold out of my grandparents, why at 30 the internet knows more than I know about my own family.

And I wonder.

If Big Sam is waiting for me like he waited for Loma, Juanita, and Druesilla. Did he meet them just the other side of the setting sun and welcome them home? Did he watch as they shed skins that once imprisoned them? Did he hold them as they shouted, hollered, tore at their own throats to release their pain and joy, their fear and confusion, did he walk them along that dark, uneven path towards understanding, catch them as they stumbled, stopped them as they contemplated running back over the horizon to the bondage of the familiar, the safety found in constant aching.

And I wonder.

How to rescue Big Sam. How to set free my great-great-great Grandfather. How to tear down the wall….strung up with strange fruit….blood fruit….my blood…my history.

And I wonder.

If it is really Big Sam that needs freeing…

Pay My Telephone Bills

I am tired. The sun is shining outside, I am nursing a cup of java, and I am so tired that if my state representative wasn't sitting at a table across from me in this coffee shop, I would shamelessly let my head drop to my chest and start drooling.

Someone somewhere forgot to tell “the movement” about the 40 hour work week, mandatory lunch breaks, and vacation. I have been going strong now since weekend before weekend before last. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. Which is why I am so damn upset that, like so many non-profits, we are facing shutting our doors.

In a world that values conformity, corporate principles, and shady values...working for a self-identified revolutionary organization whose aim is to rip apart the oppressive power systems of this country and re-build using democratic practices rooted in liberation is pretty much a recipe for reducing your potential funding streams to your crazy eccentric uncle Fred who wears a bra on his head and the millions of poor folks that want to see real change in the world.

Unfortunately, Fred is too worried about the aliens scanning his brain waves to write a check, and we don't have the advertising budget to reach the millions of natural allies that would be happy to send us $5 to support our work (100,000 people x $5=a budget for revolutionary change). See Mom, I paid attention in math class.

I have faith that my little organization that this weekend blew the tops off roughly a thousand folks that attended our workshops and plenaries during Democracy Day and the National Conference on Media Reform will still be around three months from now. But, we could use your help.

If you believe that this country has some seriously deep flaws and needs some serious help. Then take a serious moment to go to www.libertytreefdr.org, and consider making a serious donation.

Cousin Jimmy

Last night, I stood up in front of five hundred media and democracy reform leaders. On the stage next to me were Joe Bleifuss, Amy Goodman, and John Nichols. Rob Richie from FairVote and Solange from Public Campaign were two of the three welcome speakers. I was the third. My job was to welcome the crowd to Minneapolis and share a little bit about the Liberty Tree analysis. I stood up, with no preparation, with two glasses of cheap chardonnay in me, and I caught the spirit. I don't know where it came from but for two minutes the words rolled off my tongue. And the audience was insane. People were cheering and clapping throughout the entire speech. As I left the stage, Amy Goodman gave me a broad smile. John Nichols stood up and enthusiastically shook my hand. And Solange leaned over and whispered that she never wanted to speak after me. Two old ladies stopped me and asked me for my contact information, and a freelance writer said that she would like to write an article about me. I was embarrassed by the praise of dozens of people.

And I can't remember a damn word I said.

It was an amazing climax to a day that I had been co-planning for seven months. And then my Mom called.

I have a cousin named James Wakefield. Jimmy is not just my favorite cousin, he is my white, straight radical twin. He has a twin brother, actually. But in the way that he and I see the world, in the work that we do, in the way that we believe in change, he and I are alike. As we have gotten older our family has begun to swear that we look alike. I don't see it. But our Mothers swear to it. And Mom's know best.

My cousin Jimmy also has leukemia. Last December he was diagnosed with leukemia. In February he had an experimental bone marrow stem cell transplant. The doctors were calling him the miracle kid. His immune system was rebounding. His blood type was going to be different (it would be his older brothers...as he was the one that provided the stem cells). And last night, my Mom called to tell me that Jimmy's cancer had come back.

I was standing in the lobby of the Hilton and the world seemed to tip sideways. When I found out that he had cancer the first time, I didn't cry. I knew that he would kick cancer right in the face. My family for all its faults does a few things well: throw a hell of a party, when faced with crisis we come together like a Roman phalanx and we survive. Last night, I stood in the hallway of the Hilton and held David Cobb's hand and cried. Jimmy is brilliant. He has a huge heart. He just got engaged to an amazing, sassy, lovely French woman named Marie. He has a beautiful two year old nephew that loves his Uncle Jimmy. He taught English in Korea. He lived in Senegal. He understands racism and his role as a white man in fighting it. He is hilarious. He is my family.

I stood there with David, and I cried because there isn't shit I can do about any of this. I pride myself on being a crisis manager. When my friends have problems, I am a person they call to help them figure it out. My fucking strength finder says strategy is one of my greatest strengths. And there isn't anything I can do about my cousin's cancer.

But I can pray. Even though I am really pissed at God right now. I'm not going to let him get off easy. I am going to be so far in his damn ear that he is going to either listen to me or smite me. And if he smites me, at least I'll be able to let him know what I think about all this in person.

The Super Duper Magical Negro Strikes Again...or Does She

Sometime in the last year, I fell completely in love with Grey's Anatomy. The show is well written, has clever dialogue and the storylines are less predictable than my other favorite doctor saves all show House.

My favorite character, of course is the Chief Resident, Miranda, who also happens to be the only black woman on the show besides the occasional appearance of the wife of the Chief of Surgery. Back in 2001 at a speech at Yale, Spike Lee coined the phrase super duper magical Negro. He used this term to identify the stereotypical character that has appeared over and over again in cinema and literature. In general, it is a maid or a slave or a criminal or a janitor that has some magical power or amazing power of insight. And, and this is the important part, said working class Negro with supernatural powers uses them to solve the problems of one or more clueless white people.

Now, admittedly, Miranda has not yet, as of season four, demonstrated any particular ability to see directly through a patients chest at their internal organs, shoot lasers from her eyes do to microscopic brain surgery, or stop the hearts of annoying interns by snapping her fingers. But, particularly in the first two seasons, she plays the role of the thunderstorm of power and strength (with occasional vulnerability) that blazes into the room smacks an intern in the back of the head and then gives them just enough down home country advice to make the white person think. She never gives the answer, and she sure doesn't make it easy on the poor white boy or girl, but she is the catalyst that allows them to see through their mental fog (or post-coital fog) to the truth at the heart of the matter.

In that Miranda is not a poor, downtrodden black woman in a do-rag kowtowing to massuh weaving roots into a shut-your-mouth brew while making a pot of collards and chitlin's, she stands slightly outside of the official recipe of the Super Duper Magical Negro. But, in that she shows up just in the nick of time with a black matron authority (and sometimes Mammy reminiscent role of nurturing and teaching ethics and appropriate behavior to white folks that are technical her superiors but bow to her for her motherly ways) , she is very true to type.

I admit that I have not seen the full second season or the entire third season, but I did watch the fourth season and very little had changed with her character except that she was allowed more depth of character and her superhumanness was placed in check by the imminent loss of her husband. She was finally forced to recognize that she was not made of bionic parts and Dupont plastics. I am interested to see at what point in the series the humanizing of the magical Negro begins and if, in the season to come, her character will be allowed to deepen and broaden, portraying the undeniable brilliance and strengths that are the hallmark and heritage of black women but also the very real historical burden, pain, and struggle (internal and external) that has forced black women to try and make themselves into Spike Lee's Super Duper Magical Heroes.

Humility Is Not My Favorite Virtue

I have had a bad habit lately (basically for a week) of lashing out at folks when the true target of my ire is someone else. I did it to Tay last week. I did it to Ross today. I am batting 0-2 right now. Sometimes I hate being a Minnesotan.

Passive aggressiveness is fed to us her from the tit. Before we can walk we can snub, cold shoulder, patronize, and plot the destruction of our assassins in such a way that the Medicis themselves would stand up and cheer.

I pride myself on trying to be as direct as possible with folks. I have come a long way from the time when I practice passive aggressive behavior so well I could convince the target of my ire to be angry at themselves for something I did. That was a truly evil super power. But, I gave up my wicked ways and instead sought to use my powers for good.

For the last week I've felt like Superman when he touches green Kryptonite...my evil super twin comes out and hurls all my anger and frustration at the innocent bystander standing right next to my true target.

Today I publicly apologized for lashing out at Ross. Humble pie tastes like rotted ass dipped in vomit swirled in baby shit and covered in mutant pissed off maggots. But swallow it I did.

Political One Liner of the Week Award

So, today I was chatting on Facebook with my old pal Megan Thomas. Megan was relating to me a story of a friend of hers that passed away from lung cancer (non-smoking related...and the poor guy was only 27...super sad). The young man happened to be a huge supporter of Hillary Clinton. At the memorial service today, the following remark was made:

"Mike had to go to heaven to help Hillary. Because only a miracle can help her now."

That definitely qualifies for the Political One Liner of the Week Award. Awarded to Megan Thomas on behalf of the young man who passed away much much too soon.

The Enron Factor

I am pretty much exhausted. I work for an organization comprised of largely kick ass individuals that I respect and love. But, like many small non-profits still in the start-up phase, we have lots and lots and lots to figure out when it comes to organizational development and personal interactions. I am as guilty as the rest of falling into the personalities not policies trap.

One of the strengths of organizing in the political left is that we value not only the product but the process and the people. For many of us, if the product is stellar but the process to develop it is fucked up and the people involved in creating the product walk away from the process hurting (physically, mentally, spiritually) then, truthfully, the product is worthless. Our inherent difference from the Corporate Right is that the total value of an outcome is not solely based on the worth of the product but indeed the worth of the entire endeavor from start to finish. The belief that only outcomes matter continues to be at the core of mainstream society and at the heart of the underpinnings of our capitalist system and our democracy.

Liberty Tree works specifically around democracy issues. At our core, we reject winner take all systems because, frankly, those systems are the “democracy” equivalent of Enron. At Enron, the bottom line was dollars and profits and it didn't matter that the process to create the dollars was flawed, faulty, and false. It didn't matter that while some few would become mega rich that the people involved, particularly the workers, would eat the penalities at the cost of their pensions when the three Fs were un covered. In a winner take all democratic practice, it doesn't matter how the process to get elected happens, who pays for it, what promises are made and not kept or the margin by which victory is declared (ie plurality versus majority) the only thing that matters is victory and the people left without representation or voice be damned and the shredded and mortally wounded democratic process be buried alongside the people. At Enron it was the top executives that “won.” In the American Democracy, it is generally Senators, Representatives, Governors and Presidents that are the Ken Lays.

Unfortunately, at times, these same values to which all U.S. citizens to some degree are inculcated manage to sneak across the center aisle, weave through the liberals and sneak into the progressive community. In the last couple of weeks, both internal to my own organziation and to organizations with which I volunteer the depth of the infiltration of the “me first, me second, me last and always” mentality has been unveiled. But there is a difference, on the right the Me Mentality is often calculated and conscious. On the Left, particularly the revolutionary left, it is a subconscious act that the conscious radical rejects while actively acting it out. I am no exception. When I find my personal issues triggered, I find myself to be a masterful player of the Me game. To my credit, when I am confronted (or I confront myself, which also happens) I do what I can to seperate the Me from the what's right and try to make amends for any actions I took in defense of my self interest that crossed from self preservation into selfishness.

I once believed that all my comadres and copadres on the left had the same ability and desire to overcome, reject, and replace the Corporate Right instincts that have been ingrained into us by pop consumer captialist culture. I am still convinced that 98% of my friends and loved ones that are seeking to change the world for the better are still committed to fighting the three Fs both personally and in the political realm and excorcising them. But, I realized today, after thinking over some of the struggles of the last couple of weeks, that there are some people on the Left that even when lovingly given the grace to confront their own inner Ken Lay instead hire an internal Karl Rove to run a public image campaign to allow them to continue presenting one reality while living another. For the first time in a long time, my faith has been shaken. Or, perhaps better to say, that for the first time in my life I am considering walking away from particular people because I do not believe they want to be different than they are now. Even more sobering is that there have been times in my life when people in my life have felt the same way about me.

L.I.C.E and M.I.C.E

I think that everyone should be forced to take Continuing Education Credits and need to be re certified on basic skills learned in kindergarten at least once every five years. In particular, everyone should be forced to take a Live Interactive Courtesy Evaluation (LICE) and a Minimum Interaction Communication Evaluation (MICE) with a passing grade in order to be able to talk or otherwise interact with other living creatures including common pets and domestic livestock.

Let me explain how I came to this conclusion. This afternoon, I was attempting to take a nap on a languid early summer day in Madison. Taylour's apartment looks out over Lake Mendota. The vista combined with 45 minutes of canoing earlier in the afternoon and a tasty lunch had given me the -itis (for more information on the -itis please see Aaron McGruder's Boondocks). I had settled down on the Green Pleather Couch (aka my bed away from home when I visit the office in Madison) only to be awakened by the irate slamming of the microwave door, the bathroom door, several cabinets, and a plethora of pots and pans. Thus returned Andy.

Andy is Taylour's special needs roommate. In general, he is a likable guy. He is fairly quiet, and he is prone to passive aggressive fits of preschool playground behavior. I rose from my nap, and tip-toed into the kitchen. I knew that Andy had often gone nuclear on Taylour over a stray dish left in the sink. So, I ran water in my rice pot and into the wok and jumped in the shower with the intention of cleaning the dishes after I emerged. As I was toweling off, I was again aurally assaulted by another round of slamming and banging dishes and pots and pans followed by the crash of the kitchen door being flung open and slammed shut.

I emerged from the bathroom, this time, ready to cut a bitch in the throat. I looked in the kitchen to find the wok was missing. Then, a moment later, Taylour entered. I was hoping that she had temporarily gone crazy and had been the one slamming things around. Alas, it was too much for which to hope.

“Andy is mad because you put soap in his wok,” she said shrugging and looking apologetic for his asinine behavior.

“Andy needs to grow the hell up and stop slamming shit around like he was on the playground and the girls wouldn't let him play jump rope with them,” I said.

Turns out, to compound the situation, Andy was drunk. Drunk at 5pm on a Monday....GO ANDY GO (I am a little bit jealous). But, drunk or no, I expect anyone over the age of say 18 that has a full time job and a college degree to be able to knock on the bathroom door and say, “hey...you shouldn't put soap in the wok, let me show you how to clean it, so it doesn't lose the seasoning.”

Instead, I got the hipster femme biznatch that decided to do a scene from Stomp in the kitchen. Newsflash Andy, I don't read Morse code. But I sure do know lots of interesting symbols and gestures of my own that I would be happy to show you next time you throw a tantrum in the kitchen.

To quote Jenelope from that classic piece of cinema, Bring It On, “You been touched by an angel, girl.”

Anyone that has lived with me, that I have dated, or that is related to me knows that waking me from a nap is dangerous and that waking me from a nap for some bullshit has a direct mathematical relationship to the waker's continued good health. Andy is truly blessed that my love of Taylour and her continued ability to cover rent outweighed my desire to take a cheese slicer and peel Andy's face into thin slivers and feed them to Taylour's dog Cooper.