im home,alone 3 am on a sunday.how queer of me:-)
i remember when queer used to be a safe word,back in the day with 'gay'. fast forward to the year 2007 or even a decade before that(or more),it's just not excusable to use those words without the underbelly of the belly. are we raping the etymological status of these words? or are we breathing life into them,getting them out of their proverbial closet?
see,i feel queer(not strange or weird or out of place or any other convulated variations i can think of for the word queer).therefore i shall damn well use the queer word queer without fear or trepidation of there being an implication of it being anything else besides what im feeling right now.
wonderful tangent , here i am

after weeks of volumnously talking about it,polly has finally taken up knitting. if you ask me, i think it's just another one of the many doors she starts to open but never ever walks through.
luck

ps-long live the lizard king :-)

dear sir

u will never know that your fire consumed mine and that i was glad that it did.

now i want the cant have

its like a dance really
a swish of skirts
a tap of a shoe
click click
left and right
to the
front and back
side to side
then a step
and new hands new fingers
colors smoke fire

i want the dance to stop
yesterday
when there were very strong worthy fingers

cuts and bruises,for me seem perfunctory now. like a prerequisite even. if im not blue black purple and finally gray,just the holding of hands would not suffice.
so here i am,walking away from hands that hold hands
to dagger plunges,wrist cuts and neck wrangling.

hallelujah!

im bleeding
because i was prepared to bleed.

sweet sir galahad

this is for you
i know how months ago we wrapped things up between us like so much clutter and confused yarn
that now on the anniversary of the night you handed me a light,i have curled myself in with all that clutter and confused yarn.
i know now, sweet sir galahad, that you are not. much as i knew all throughout that i cotton-ed my wise-ness. like an extension of my myopic eyes,realities of situations faded into nothingness soon as they were out of reach of my elbows.
you are not the dream
you are not the haven
you are not the sliver of God on a platter
you are not my utopia
you are not
you are not
you are not
but you were gentle in your clumsiness
and you saw the pieces of me that was me
and you remembered every smile
and move.

sweet sir galahad, as you move through Paris with your long strides and kind eyes.
know
that some things should never be forgotten.