unearthingbone

tell me something anonymously:

a secret,

something that troubles you,

something you've never told anyone else,

what you're afraid of,

something you want to say to someone but you struggle to (including me, if i make that list),

the thing or person that makes you feel most alive,

what breaks your heart,

the scariest thing you've ever done,

what makes you happy,

who you love,

and on and on.

the paradox of bootstraps

change is the cornerstone of this kingdom.
my surrender flag whiteknuckled,
i'm kneedeep in the quicksand moat, in the muck
like where rasputin's eyes unlit and his mouth
erupted the last brown bubbles.
a death rattle:
mothers, fathers are eyedeep and sinking, holding their moses
babies over their heads, an offering
to self-appointed gods, the human service,
thin black baby hairs curled
like a signature annointing relinquishment and blame.
the self-appointed
leave behind the children that are
at the meter of survival out of coins,
take the babies that drive
the profit margin higher,
dole out dollar values that decrease with difference

but it's
for the welfare of the children:
for the welfare of the diagnosed and stigmatized:
for the welfare of the Deaf, hard of hearing, blind, in wheelchairs:
for the welfare of the invisible difference:
for the welfare of the people of color:
for the welfare of the poor:
for the welfare of the intersex:
for the welfare of the queer:
for the welfare of the trans folk:
for the welfare of the glass-ceilinged:
for the welfare of the pagans:
for the welfare of the HIV-positive:
for the welfare of the uninsured:
for the welfare of the immigrating:
for the welfare of the homeless:
for the welfare of the drug users:
for the welfare of the forgotten:
for the welfare of the pregnant:
for the welfare of the imprisoned:
for the welfare of the dying:
for the welfare of the sex workers:
for the welfare of those bloodied by violence:
for the welfare of the young and old:
for the welfare of the war-afflicted:
for the welfare of intersectionality:
for the et al, the lump sum of marginalization


i say
what the fuck do you know about our welfare?
fare fucking well to the violent sexist
able-bodied straight(/gay) rich white terrorizing alms
donated by the pity power of
the righteous across the moat
holding their leather bags,
their red dimes
building fortresses too tall to see over
around my queer,
my poor, my transient body,
beaten so that it swells beyond its seams.
fare fucking well when you
watch me drown in the moat you dug,
when you
beg me shame and adherence to bullshit rules
in exchange for lifting my legs
out of the moatmuck
that is concrete hardened, concrete
that you laid for trapping.

This is one of the best articles I've read on this topic, with the exception of the use of the word "handicapped" instead of "dis/(dis)/differently-abled."



Racism 101 for Clueless White People, Written by a Slightly Less Clueless White Person
By Robin F. // tamago23

(  +  )

and an example of how messy my old apartment was. compelling narration brought to you by b.o.i. sha.



i am so glad for all the people that i know. seriously.

i think i would like someone to buy me this as a labor day present.

speaking of present, i remembered this morning to be present in my own life and commit to and communicate my truths and my needs.

i had coffee with dvigesh and his ladyfriend this morning. i'm so glad nate is back. his poems/poetry/brain/friendship/existence shake up my poems/poetry/brain/friendship/existence in a way that is a little inexplicable.

i miss jacques and mollie and vinny so much.

also my lips are chapped, i'm out of cigarettes, and the best thing that happened to me all day so far was driving into town and feeling the fall sunshine.

and i am wearing a sweatervest today and sweatervests are very much a reason to live.

i've been trying to figure out lately what "home" means to me.

so tell me -- what does home mean for you? where is home? who is home?

BALLAD OF T.D. BANKNORTH, INC.
     for Student Checking Account #9021086753

I. Haiku against leprechauns

Ten-digit keeper
of my gold: Please don't be charmed
by glinting grins.

II. Haiku for descending into darkness

Please do not dock me
$25 per transaction
if I overdraw.

III. Haiku for the mighty temptress

You won't seduce me
with promise of kissing with
tongue, Savings Account.

IV. Haiku instructional to identity thieves

Account number list-
ed above will not lead you
to the promised land.

A conversation in an entry I wrote a week ago or so spawned this poll. Please remember that answers are visible to all, and you can feel free to skip any questions or comment about anything here :)



Poll #1436808 The Very Scientific Spooning::Personality Correlation Poll
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 26

What spooning position do you prefer?

What brings you to prefer this/these position(s)?

How would you label your personality? (For definitions of "introvert" and "extrovert," see here.)

Now, in the bedroom (RARRR) (or in addition to / not in the bedroom, depending on how you view these identities), how would you identify yourself?

Have you ever had one of your identities shift, change, or become more fluid?

If you feel comfortable sharing, what identiti(es) shifted for you? (Totally okay not to share, and please remember this poll is visible by all.)

Has this impacted your spooning preference? If so, how? i.e., were you most comfortable as a little spoon before and are most comfortable as a big spoon now?

Anything else you've noticed about your spooning preference and/or any shifts in this preference throughout your life? :)

rainy summer days.

( painted floors, cats in boxes )

now that that's over and done with: damn it, i really need some spooning and hand-holding in my life. and cute first kisses. let's go, life.

summer resolutions:

1. give more selflessly. take only what i need.
1b. communicate without intending to commit deliberate hurt to anyone else.
2. love more fully, especially myself.
3. learn ani's "independence day" in full.
4. write a song with a complex guitar part.
5. habla y/o lee español cada día, especialmente cosas que parezca más díficil. ve películas con subtitulos en español todo el tiempo.
6. commit to vulnerability.
7. learn more music theory. retrieve my flute from my parents' house.
8. eat healthier. run more.
9. get my car's intake manifold repaired.
10. self-care, self-care, self-care.
11. start working on non-fiction writing.

passing through

the front door gasps open
with the exhale of tragedy
in our little house city. shutterless
eyes empty of eyes.

**

vulnerability

your finger
counts my pulse.
your eyes are palindromes
incising monopoly and
i am a stopped sink
unstopped--stopping.

**

new house

i will lift the sheet
if you promise
to gaze without flinching,
to look while touching
deeply, to count scars
with your eyes,
to walk in as far as i am able
to understand, to absorb
the gust of exposure
& the geists that follow
that words cannot cage,
to fold my face
in a gentle dogear,
to return again, heavy with
rain, to carry in
your boots--
an offering: an arm
around your ghosts,
all smiling, in
my wet uncharted
newness beyond
ending and ending.

this is a little embarrassing, but i have a total crush on david archuleta.



so much so that i may or may not have just learned "crush" on the geetar ... and i know all the words.

there is no logical reason why my new pair of size 38 mens jeans won't stop falling down, especially because i'm wearing a belt that holds up my other pairs of (size 38) jeans just fine.

i can't believe it's july already.

i saw my sister's keeper the other day and it, in conjunction with father's day and happy dying [ :( ], brought to the surface a lot of things i've been trying to keep buried about my father and his battle with cancer. my father is 62 years old, and he spent four years battling cancer -- his body looks like it's about 72 years old. i know he's not going to be alive forever, and i am trying to make peace with our relationship and him because i learned from jay's death that burying issues i have with people makes losing them twice as traumatic for me. ( i've been... )

---

let's move on to sillier things. these could be two separate entries, but hey, it's more real, i suppose, to talk about sad things with happy or frivolous things 'cause that's how it is in my brain.

why is it that the best headphones i've ever owned are jetblue's $1 headphones? fuck earbuds. these things are so comfortable!

i dyed my hair yesterday to a strawberry-blonde-type configuration. i'm thinking about adding some bright red to where my hair is normally pink 'cause i don't like anything monosyllabic.



i also had to buy a new phone the other day 'cause mine was knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door. WTF. it had already been out for servicing three times and i'd had it for less than a year. just say no to the lg rumor.

finally, i'm grateful for sunshine, friends, rain, and being and loving who i am. and lately, my family of origin, even though it hurts my heart a lot of the time to have them in my life.

FOR SALE:



mint condition set of 38 DD boobs -- homegrown and aged 22 years for perfection! some marks from normal wear-and-tear, but hardly any sag at all. includes FREE carrying/display cases and a CERTIFICATE OF AUTHENTICITY. more pictures available upon request.

COST: FREE! (plus nominal removal and shipping & handling fees)

a notation: i'm the artist formerly known as oblivxion. i just purchased a rename token 'cause it was starting to feel like i was too easy to find as "oblivxion," which was a relic of my fourteen-year-old self anyway :)

last night i gave myself permission to stop worrying and i laid in a hammock with julia and looked up at the stars through a net of tree branches.

then i played my guitar and we danced around the house with wine blushing the sides of plastic glasses.

and then my cat and i spooned and watched runaway bride in my big new bed and i fell asleep with the TV on like my father, but not like my father because i felt buoyant with love.

the gap between existing with happiness or with sadness is only a few steps wide inside my body, and i think i am just going to do my best to live deliberately, and just for me, for me, for me.

stonewalled

i am standing in the footholds of my
history, looking up at a river sky from
a new york street like a boston street
like a san francisco street like a
maine street but here is where
explosions happened first, where
a queer kid took the heavy baton into
his skinned knuckles and said, "no," breathed
it out like it was life itself, like
it would erase the blood paintdrying
beneath his nose, like it would
reattach the spike broken from
the heel in the gutter broken
from the heel of the queen not
moving nearby on the pavement.
what can i do forty years later? play
my guitar like it's my heart breaking,
songs are sobs 'cause the curve
of a rainbow's edge can't contain
the sadness i feel here, surrounded
by straight women in purple dresses
and straight men wearing leather
shoes and queer men wearing little
white shorts who turn their
eyes from me, the too-queer queer.
i'm invisible in a place that
made me visible, and i'm scrambling
to collect pieces of queerness
as my colors -- red for blood, black
for leather, purple for the greyness
of who we are -- are taken
from their origins with us and painted new,
painted without pain, painted
by unskinned knuckles. what i can give
is not enough: sobs don't cure
assimilation, broken heels
don't glue themselves back together,
and i don't know if i have
the strength to take
the black baton in my hands
and hit back again
and again and again.