angel-man

(for Omar)


burden
like gravity.

memories
self-select the bruises.

heavy breaths
sound
off.

back
locks to bed.

tears hang
on the cliff of eyelids.

and while
one man tries harder
not to explode
struggles to secure his cool
insulates
whatever ways
his moon cries
when crescent
another man
an angel still
offers permission
to break

and whatever was heavy
becomes alleviated

whatever was bruised
becomes the color of water

and there is the prospect of joy
in these pains
that well up to fall
forming meaning
where poets fail
to find words

tears
interpret the feeling
no song
has been written
for this acute pain

this Other man
this beautiful angel-man
soft and necessary as air
strong
because someone needs him
to be
simply says "hey"

one word
and whatever tone
adding onto the meaning
become the prayer
said moons ago
for this perfect moment
this time to cry
tonight the hourglass
bleeds faster than the wounds

tears be the salve
he feel the flow
on his skin
weakened from drought

across the miles
angel-man holds
this human dam
of a man
celebrated for strength
that has almost killed him
helps him lay burdens down
break
to begin again

perfect timing
this angel-man's "hey"
so he lets go
to let his heart
open up
again

sexy in caricature

(for belasco, james caldwell, jr, shon gales)

the contours are striking
my own hands
are unforgivingly critical
fingers have become over-familiarized
with the texture and bump
of lite hair, vein-river limbs
woolly hair that locs effortlessly
tight tummy
holding a trail of tears
evidence of loneliness

have been described as a man
with eyes that cut and pierce
as passionately as they smile
or cry
and i am not sure i like
being seen
so naked

sometimes when out...
people stare
I'm left wondering
if I'm known, want to be known
or an indexical trace to somebody
beautiful
or maybe
just some kind of tragic wonderment
framed
some exhibition seen
having realized
shame is no hiding place
for those who live
bravely and bare

muscular and top heavy
i smile through imperfections
assimilate gym workouts
i don't have
as often as is believed
i no longer have a boy's body
loving this evolution
into becoming a man
a dom, some daddy's papa
hoping to again
submit to loving

amusing
the way others see me
especially
the brothas from and roundabout Memphis
who draw me best
make me feel most beautiful
when i don't see it
or see myself
clearly

so i strive
to see myself
the way their pens see me
sexual, object of desire
inking myself
deeper than my baritone
leaving lasting impressions
on and/or in
memory, flesh, possibility
and there on page
smiling back at myself

i find joy
in this
deferred self-pleasuring
am liking this existential
being in somethingness
so(ul)fully hue-man
sexy in caricature

Interpretation

for Lalah
Tim'm T. West
(c) 2007, Red Dirt Publishing

born of the elements
Earth, Wind, Fire
heart palpitates for it
this song heard moons ago
though not really
is the air i breathe
when my lungs fail
and because she sings it
this woman who sees through me
everytime she's looked at me
i will be okay ... today
am uncomfortably safe
in her watch
especially when miles away
comforted by her heavenly contralto
don't have to be stronger
with her at ear's reach
she knows better
am strongest not pretending.
so today the harmonies
hold me tighter
than the words

at 5th listen
tears come
i am burdened
feeling i was born to long so
for love
that i have tried
to make words become flesh
breathe life into possibility.
this song, like so many others
must have been written in my mouth
at birth
for a moment yet to come
not unlike "heaven knows",
"come along with me",
"a moment" or "more"
this "lover's holiday"
is the kiss of life
i have yet to taste
for keeps

heart
has been growing thirsty
by the day
for this holiday
sweat and tears
have not yet quinched
the pull for lips
not my own
arms that take better care
of this brown flesh
than i can.
for all the self love i can muster
i grow more tender with touch
am man enough to admit:
I don't want to do this living
alone...
body often bound to bed
sleepless
nostalgic for a future
when i can look back
share a slow dance
to this and other interpretations
and understand
none of this clumsy loving
i have done
is without purpose

someday
I will extend a hand
lock another's in mine
place it by this same beating heart
still syncopating with songs
interpreted by this angel
this siren
born to sing for and keep me
hopeful
and ask:
"would you mind?"

Me and my brothers

she

she
has never caused me
any pain
so sometimes
my middle finger recalls
cuddling
the small of her back
is reminded of the gravity
of her femialiarity
scent that draws my nose
to neck
sniffs and tastes
where my sweat has danced
down her neck
and onto a landscape
kissed over and again
til nothing is left untouched
and she passes out
exhausted
pleased
by my mouth's raveshing
nectar sweet
gratitude in her gaze
pride in my exhale
she is hot
i am cool
we are what precedes he
returning to womb magic
home inside of her
holds me so closely
i cry with her
am born again

how strong i feel
loving she
though weakened
by this profound secret
i have harboured
when she has never been careless
told me lies
left me sleepless
for wanting to be wanted
played games
afraid of being played first
adores me openly
and i am more bowlegged with her
swagger shaped by her watchfulness
she remains proud
that i remember
the sweetness between us
the weight of her lightness

she
loves the smell of my sweat
slipping onto her
our passiongrip
supported by the flexing
of my back
my nature
rising to the occassion
of "love deluxe" and "skin"
this is no ordinary love

i walk into crowded rooms
she shines proudly
i talk
she gets wet
nipples to attention
my baritone
reverbs them a lullaby
chemistry so perfect
she whispers thanks to God
blushes like lovers should
how safe i have felt
not feeling unsafe
in her embrace
my hands remember
palms that feel perfect
my lips in the crevices
mapping a life
protected
and i remember
adoration
touch myself thinkin bout
the 1st dyke i ever kissed
who broke my heart
being too strong a womyn
to deny me the blessing
of a cursed curiosity

but i will find her someday
again
pull her lips to mine
remind her
that she balances my strength
giggles and blushes
when i sing low in the morning
sheets not as soft as she
unworried
i'm being too manly with her
lets me feel in control
though i am not
and she
might be strong enough to kiss me back
knowing these lips
have kissed men, and more
welcome the density
and breadth of my desire
holding her as unapologetically
as i have held men
afraid of being held

she still smiles when i call
her laughter reminds of our sleeping
chest to back
lips on nape of neck
hands cupping breasts
resting from the dancing
on my lips
just hours before
she thanks me for being strong enough
to be vulnerable
reminds me
i may be the only man
she has not been afraid to love
though, unlike me,
she has stopped trying
has always been smarter

somedays
crying
i remember:
eclipse
is an event
rare as our connection
me the sun
she the moon
hopeful
realignment

whole again

the love deserved...

"His Mosaic Heart" by Kevin Dapree


Just before Valentine's Day 2007, I am writing about love, somewhere between the thick of heart-break and a surrender to hopefulness. I don't know that I know anything about love, except that somewhere down the line, I wrote my own fairy tale-- imagined a life with someone who dared to dream, as bravely as I have, that two black men can fall and stay in love with one another for the long haul. Then there is my reality.

There was little to no evidence of this as a kid who has known of my sexual desire for men for as long as I've understood desire. It's a pure projection of futurity, not unlike the way children play house as practice for the homes they'll build. And since there was not brave pairing with other little boys as practice for the home I'd someday try to build, I took whatever cues I could get from a culture so stubborn in its heteronormativity that my relationships have been about as broken and disoriented as it. Still, I remain hopeful. I have faith that each turn and stumble into those I sincerely recognize as capable of loving, will not lead to loving men who are as careless with my heart as I have been with it. And therein lies the "light-bulb" admission. I have not taken very good care of my heart. I've believed that I'm attractive because I attract attractive people. I've believed that I'm desirable because my worth can be measure by degrees, accolades, and sheer talents. And I honestly find living for another so much more gratifying than living for self. Yep. When I take my meds for HIV each day, I attach the act to a hope for finding that great love. I'm not really ashamed of that. I'm prolonging my life so that I can experience this joyous relationship I've been desiring for much of my life. Among the things i most want to be remembered for is being a good partner. Acceptance is a first step.

I have always been a hopeful romantic, a dreamer, and a pure heart. I look for reasons to love people not hate them. I never forget someone's best, and will try to look beyond their shortcomings to understand why they may operate projecting the creulty life has dealt them. I believe that many things that are broken can be fixed. And this is where the most recent heartbreak begins to shed light on the shortcomings of my romance and optimism. For all the ways I can love hard, I cannot mend anyone who prefers to stay broken or who doesn't believe they are. I have damaged myself in the trying. I'm a magnet for people in process who would prefer not to be. And this isn't to say that I have all my "shit" together and have no issues. I know my issues. They are identified and in process, independent of anyone else's help. That's my responsibility to myself. I do think that I've historically drawn people to me who adore the purity and intensity of my loving, only to be frightned away or overwhelmed by it. "It's not you, it's me", is the storyline of my life. And now I think i get it. I can now say: "Yes, it is you.", rather than the bends and turns to warp reality, rationalize, or delude myself into thinking happiness is possible with someone incapable of valuing my love. You see, the way I love isn't really the problem. My choices in loving have been.

At a recent Brave Soul Collective gathering we were all asked to share, as an icebreaker, the best advice we've been given as well as an unhelpful criticsm. After some reflection while others bravely shared, I noted that my statements were pretty much one in the same-- the suffix of the statement making the difference.

Criticism: You're a hopeless romantic... and you're gonna scare somebody off if you stay that way.
Best Advice: You're a hopeless romantic... find another. You can have everything that you desire.

I realized, upon a friend sharing with me, the second statement, that I have seldom felt deserving of the kind of love I'm willing to give. Where did this start? Not being protected from a childhood molester? Domestic, physical, and psychological abuses i witnessed in my home as a child? Pulpit blasphemy that preached everything contrary to the certainty that God is love? Insecurity and therefore an addiction to perfectionism? Clinical depression? HIV?

I can honestly say that those who have perhaps loved me best are among those whose hearts I have broken-- not because I desired to, but because, deep down, I saw a reflection of myself that i didn't believe was possible... and ran from it. In the past, I did not believe I was worthy of the kind of love i seek to give. I recall my last face-to-face conversation with my friend (and ex) Corey. We were taking a trip to visit his father in S.C. back in April 2006. I'd just distanced myself from someone who had proven to be disrespectful and unappreciative of the ways I honored and privileged our relationship. Corey was complaining about some cat who didn't return his phone calls and who seemed to show little evidence of the kind of loving I desired for my dearest friend. In our last hours, fed up with the ways that Corey's complaints mirrored my own toleration of "bullshit", I grabbed his hand, looked him square in the eyes and asked: "Do you know what it feels like to be cherished?" After a long pause, a sigh, and his suggestion that I was asking a trick question... he answered, "No". I was deeply saddened by this, as I knew that I had cherished him from the very first day we met back in the Fall of '97-- two b-boys locking eyes on Christopher street and discovering some magic thereafter. I relayed to Corey that i have always cherished him; to which he responded: "but you're different." He didn't feel deserving either. He passed away in November 2006. I'm very glad I expressed my feelings. It was a first lesson given to another, that was intended for me. The night of his passing I cried myself to sleep next to someone whose own sleep was clearly more important than the comfort i needed. Ain't that something?!? And I stayed...

We are creatures of habit. I once experienced someone who cherished (and still cherishes) me. He offered some approximation of the love I deserve. I denied myself it, thinking that perhaps we'd moved to fast, and lured back to someone who probably does love me, though unprepared to stand alongside me, as a partner, fully embracing all that a life-partnership entails. I got "got". And the worse thing about it is that, in the process, I broke someone's heart who has (perhaps) loved me best. He still loves and has forgiven me. I have not forgiven myself. I'm still working on feeling deserving...

So now, dusting off the knees and making my way through the rubbish for whatever loving lies ahead, I suffer through many a lonely night without a cuddle. It sucks. I'm a tough guy with a soft heart, and my pillows don't quite comfort like I'd prefer. But it's better to learn to be okay with this than sleep next to someone who doesn't seem to want you there at all-- who pushes you away with every attempt you make to hold onto. And it is in this current heart-brokenness that I'm finding my clarity.

Will i be less of a hopeful romantic here out? No. I don't actually think that's the problem. I do know the evidence that I am deserving of what I give will show up when I've found another willing to give the same-- perhaps through their own stumbling and falling-- the gift of awareness we sometimes get in the "mean"time. I graciously accept the smiles, attention, invitations I get to indulge the warmth I believe I deserve. I do know that right now, I most need a friend and time. Love will happen again. The confidence needed to have a firm enough foundation for the actualization of my most romantic hopes and dreams is possible. But i can't make the compromises I've made. Can't apologize for being traditional. Can't be anything but who I am: fearless in my loving, hopeful in my giving, smarter in my deliberation.

I spoke to a sistah-friend the other day about all of this. She heard the pain and despair in my voice-- me trying to cover the heart-heart with spirited performances and diligence in my professional work as an educator. "I know you, Tim'm", she said. "You wouldn't be you, if you didn't love even harder the next time.... you deserve that. You owe it to yourself to make it better."

I am coming to internalize the resolve and confidence that she and others have in me, in order to secure precisely what I want in a relationship. I'm beginning to look in the mirror and see the distinguishing marks and features that I've so long taken for granted as pretty damn special (hell, even sexy). I'm working through pain to get to something else-- the unspeakable joy you feel when there is no doubt that you are loved... and that it's not temporary or conditional. I'm preparing myself to believe, as strongly as I have ever before, that the love deserved, awaits me with a smile as full as my own.... in time. Love is nothing if not patient.

Noir Reflections '06

(photo by emile benjamin)

we came to hills where cometh our strength, riding the wave of whatever change was awaiting permission to be sparked. we brought our burdens there: full hearts and blues boxes with songs from the key of life and salt. we came committed to be the change we dream: living in our fullness where others filled their emptiness with next cocktails, cocks or tails. sober, we understood the necessity of feeling with the clarity of vultures sighting sustinence. holding one another close, we understood that expressions of intimacy don't require nakedness, risk, or self-sacrifice. we held one another so closely that it hurt to let go. in the after... we will have to call on the memory of such protectedness.

we needed to pray together-- build a shrine with our inspirational quotes, taboos, tears, ghetto-antics, and cuddles. we needed to believe we were the product of a loving and living God, full of grace and endowing us with peace of mind to enact the revolutions that would reflect in our mirrors, homes, and families. we came to find refuge in friends and left with the certainty of brothas who would hold us in the falls or at the edge of heartbreaks. we arrived single and partnered to leave committed to the same or not-- whatever deepened the joy and stability we seek. we prayed for courage to do the work when we returned back to the source of our coming. we would not leave the same as the way we came. how could we, when we ate hearty, sanctified meals prepared by goddesses who cook with love? the food made us happy and brave souls willing to exhale all discontentment and shame. we needed to be reminded that we could live better than we had... we needed to be reminded even, of our will to live.

i arrived there having let my light slip a bit. there was a time, not so long ago, when i wanted ceremonies, families joined in their struggle to reconcile the truth of two blakkboys' enduring love for one another: resilient and fearless. love for me represents more joyfullness, romance, and love making than I have experienced to date. so i wanted friends around who reminded me that i would not find fullness by becoming numb to love's promise-- defering it for another day or stopping short of whatever is best. i want to feel it's grasp now: holding me as tightly as my dearest would were it my last breath. but somehow... convinced that i might be expecting too much too soon, i got lost. an army of angels came to rescue me from the pit of self-doubt and disrememberance. i have known love so full it moved me to joy beyond measure. how did i let the memory of such fullness escape the tomorrow i had been molding with my will? how could i blame its loss on anyone but me? i can be the change i dream is possible, moving through blue to get to my rainbow. brave souls provided a noir reflection-- reminded me that i am love... am an inspiration... am worthy of someone so confidently blessed to be my complement that they beam, not shrink, at inquiry of my absence because I fill them with joy-- emit an aura that says "kept close" when thought about, tickle the gut to arouse the smile whose source is my own, my baritone resonating so deeply that the afterparts tingle with anticipation for the next time i sink myself into love...into him. why haven't i claimed this... its becoming or its revelation? why would i ever settle for less than this fullness? be somebody other than myself? have i been afraid to ask for what i so deserve?

at noir reflections 06, i was reminded: i am the shine and strength of leather. i am the bear's muse and hunger. i am greater than i have let myself be in recent months... and only i am to blame...only i can fix it. how could i let myself slip... doubt my agility to stretch into the fullness i'd been molding for years? I had to retreat to high hills and clean water-- remove myself from the muck of city smoke and delusions of "cool" to find a perfection so simple it is God.

tonight i am praying for rememberence... for what it feels like to shake worry and embrace peace of mind and joy-- feel good about rising with a rise and making my sweetheart blush... my sweetheart is one who blushes because he is proud that i love him. my sweetheart keeps me blushing. he is thankful for friends who'd hold my wait in his absence. i am learning to recognize that mine is a love that expects better love than the day before, not the contentment of "cool" or deferred dreams. how simple it can be to let love extend itself, without fear or trepidation of the hurt. how powerful would such a love be to those looking for clues on what it means to make it work, without feeling like you're always working. I am remembering the brothas around me who saw the shine i have forgotten. If need be i will rewind life to december 8-10 in '06 to glimpse a sense of what it feels like to show and be shown adoration. it is as sweet as my first honeysuckle kiss.

how could i ever doubt whatever has made me smile? why would i continue to let in anything that would bring me to tears so full of pain they do not fall for fear of blinding me? i am claiming release from anything that would wish me less that my most full smile. i am turning myself over to those who provide safety enough to draw out tears I have not let fall since Rickey's fall. i am remembering the strength of the savior who held me then and claiming it again. He would want that for me: ceremonies, rituals, and assurance... that the best days are yet to come. He wants me to feel the love he knows my heart beats for. Gotta get back to honoring how sweet that is.

and I have noir reflections 06 in deep creek maryland with Us Helping Us to thank for these and other revelations: eric nicholson, monte' j., yarde, marques, sleepy, ernest, patrick, nigel, donte shannon, ken, curtis, tavarious, chris, emile, jeff, and kimothy. i thank them for holding a mirror to myself through eyes so fierce in their loving that I see myself as nothing less than the beauty I am looking for.

I am claiming my fullness this moment, and...

exhibition seen

the unassuming exhibitionist
turns his body to light
gets held by gazes so intently
that he tries to stretch out of recognition
into darkness,
wherever he feels would safely
place him out of harm's ray

his tentative avoidance
becomes his song and dance
and people relish the glide of his feet
inhale the afterglow
of his unintentional smiles
his thoughtfullnees morphs into a mean-mugg
they say it is sexy
though he has never longed to be
just needed and cherished

a baritone, his curse given at birth
forshawdowing that he'd never experience
childhood
yet seductive
so people lick their lips
(and he pretends not to see them)
and people dream him into their bodies
with their eyes
(and sometimes, he dreams with them)

and while he often does not like it
he has come to recognize
what it means to be annointed
with the gift
of moonlight
of a body that in its robust imperfection
is perfect to watch...
shift, glow, rise, and disappear

and so he spins back into night light
realizing this has been his calling
and they wonder
if his touch would be as beautiful
as this exhibition thing he does
on stages or in grocery stores
while he wonders
if a body of art
can be loved
as passionately as it is so highly
appraised

Brave Souls Unplugged: a collage in truth

hey family.

Brave Soul Collective is doing a fundraiser in order to support our 501c 3 status as a non-profit. We're putting together an incredible showcase of Theatre, Music, and Poetry/Spoken Word that is sure to be powerful, provocative, and pleasurable. I don't ask for a lot from friends, but I hope that you will all support this event. As an artist and activist, Brave Soul Collective embodies so much of what I stand for, as a truth-teller whose song aspires to be contagious enough to change it all: education, HIV/AIDS, the various idiotic isms we still deal with in 2006, and so much beyond that.

Monday, November 20, 2006
Brave Soul Collective presents:
Brave Souls Unplugged: a collage in truth
Music, Theatre, and Poetry/Spoken Word
by: Tim'm T. West, Monte J. Wolfe, Restoration Stage Theater,
ButtaFlySoul, Vincenzo Cornetto, Jason Barrett AKA Jazz,
Warehouse Theater- Main Stage
1021 7th Street, NW
Washington, DC 20001
7:00 p.m.
for more details, go to:
www.bravesoulcollective.org

love-ritual defined:

(or ways I want to feel love(d))

1. little things
signifying
the encyclopedia of feelings
already felt and anticipated
and being very
(very... very)
proud to be
caught up in the rapture
so much that others feel it.
not so much public display
as private illumination
of joy so full it overcomes
especially your fear
is the exceess manifest as your aura

2. romantic bookends anchor
libraries echoing
those three words
said a million different ways
(even without words).
lips that do not tire
from kiss
eyes that notice
they are watched...
and that bask in the enjoyment
of being such a wonder
the other 7 grow green with envy

3. the magnetic lure of lips
ajoining smiles and after-tingles
the sheer mutuality of joy's resonance
waiting to return (again)
and looking for ways to (re)assure
beyond the ways already discovered.
seeing the smile
on the otherside
of your text message or "hi".
embracing intensity
and running from fear.
bravery to get beyond
what blocks your blessing.

4. patience enough
to allow second winds of change
to lift you both
over hurdles
and the ability to blush
when disagreeing or mad
hold one another anyway
let lullabies or prayer
resolve the discord
and pleased to stay,
hold,
kiss when only night notices
hold the wait
tightly.

5. empathy enough to know
the one you are loving
is hurting
(and restless with that shit)
courage to communicate
and the urgency to make things right
even if you cannot.
confidence in knowing
each day
why you choose to stay
a most special friend

6. and yes....
there is candle-light
slow dances
silliness and laughter
loving the love made
the cuddles or pillow talk
before and/or after
and even in the spaces between
where absence or moods
swing with the force of inevitability
touch and go
and you can still feel the touch
in pillows grabbed
in the pulse of your heart
and feel as full as ever
knowing
rituals will hold
because you hold them
as sweetly as you hold
each other.

Remember to Remember to Breathe: A Lesson Rickey taught me.

It's been a little more than a month to the day since I received the news that my dear friend Rickey Williams committed suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge. There....I said it. No softening what happened with elusive synonyms like "he took his life" that beg the question. There is no poetry when the crude reality of this loss still bites at me. No "first flight" to beautify what was such a horribly traumatic event. Why did he do it? People still ask; as if I actually know... Rickey's pain with whatever he was dealing with became so acute that he forgot that I needed him. I suppose it's selfish to say that. I suppose it's selfish that he jumped. But I live with the remnants of whatever we shared that give our relationship meaning: love for the outdoors, being moved to poetry, our romance with black people (even when they'd failed us), and a certain idealism that a better world awaits. Rickey became impatient with this "world to be" that we romanced during meals or walks near water. I've been suicidal myself, though I struggle to float as a way of soaking up tomorrow's promise.

A month later I am still at a loss to understand the whys. I remember getting the call from Marvin White while in Chicago. The news of Rickey's death was one thing. That he committed suicide seemed to suspend the pain. Deep down I wanted to know how. Something about the method would make it more tangible. I'd walked across the Golden Gate with Rickey before. It's a very amazing structure-- much more magnificent than I expected. It's no wonder that people who have lost sight that there's any reason to continue living, take to the air beneath. They must all believe they are displaced angels. The bridge isn't gold though, it's red. I find that interesting given that it's also the #1 suicide spot in the nation. The city would erect a preventative barrier on the bridge but would lose too much money due to tourism of this Great Wonder. A wonder our Capitalism is.

Rickey came to Oakland straight outta New Mexico. I remember him wearing sandals in winter and thinking.... what a white boy hippie?!? It was probably a very fucked up thing to think and I never spoke it, though I'm sure he read my eyes well enough. It wasn't so much that I was one-upping his blackness... but blackness was so ever-present in my life that I often took it for granted. Excitement about blackness kinda rubbed me the wrong way, because I feel that I've seen the very best and worse of my people. I hold no romance of "we were once kings and queens". The kings and queens had slaves.

Rickey seemed to desire the seemingly effortless manner of my black maleness. Still, blackness was something I'd often felt trapped by. I had been betrayed too often by brothas and sistas (on the basis of my sexuality, alone) to hold any notion of a revolutionary unified front smashing global white supremacy. My blackness seemed unquestionable, my naptitude as radiant as my Negritude, I carried the trace of Mandingo in my baritone and swagger. But I, as often, felt burdened by it. Rickey's off-center blackness was a middle finger to the anxious afrocentrists trying to serve as blackness or masculinity police. I'm not sure if he truly realized the sheer power and beauty of it. He was shameless about his love for black men. He loved us perhaps better than he loved himself.

I remember laughing at how excited Rickey was to be living in Oakland with its black bohemian aesthetic. I hadn't considered that the New Mexico or Colorado offered nothing remotely "black-mecca" in the way that Oakland does. Rickey quickly got involved in several of the BayArea black arts- activist scenes-- from East Bay church, which we both attended regularly, to BGLAM (Black Gay Letters and Arts Movement). Rickey did what many of us activist minded people do-- save everyone but ourselves. It's easier to offer the solutions to others-- harder to face the reality that despite the knowledge and information you have at your disposal... that you still struggle with feelings of inadequacy, lack of self-worth, and utter dejection. There's blood memory that we carry with us that is the unresolved pain of silent and silenced generations. I suppose we should be proud that we are a strong (black) people. We suffer so much and are still here. But some of us grow impatient and irresponsive to that pep talk. We need a big black proverbial couch and to be reminded by that shrink God that we are loved unconditionally. Here on Earth, we are more often than not reminded of how conditional love is.

Some of us desire every reminder of love and goodness in the world with a sense of urgency. We want life to be easier. We get tired of struggling and carrying the weight of so many who seem apathetic to the way things are. Certain aspects of the world can make us physically sick. And we can love with the intensity of a Phoenix-- focusing on our heart's desire so intently that our living becomes inextricable to our living for someone or something. Some who read this will say they've never loved anyone or anything that much. For all of the pain loving this way can create-- the extremes of which can manifest as suicidal feelings-- I'm glad I was made this way. I think it makes me special. Rickey was special too.

Rickey and I were drawn to each other instantly. He was the rock climbing, mountain hiking, granola eating, backpacking and recycling lightskindid allure who I believed was a true free spirit. I suppose he saw me as the black gay revolutionary dredlocked banjeeboy jock rapper with fire in my eyes; leading some tribe to Elsewhere. I think he once said that he admired and wanted to be like me. I think I wanted to be a little like him. I resent that he gave up on life. We operated as pillars for each other. I had a few despondent moments myself and Rickey held my hand through it. We'd helped each other survive a few lows before. When you're an activist and speaking on behalf of people who haven't yet gained courage to speak for themselves, you take on a lot of pain. It's wise to check self sometimes and ensure that you can note the ways YOU are being take care of.

Rickey and I both recognized the frailty guised by our strong statures, when others failed to see anything but strong black men. And perhaps real strong black men would have done a little more to uncover that frailty. Sometimes our projections of strength don't match our reality. I cried like a baby when I got the news about Rickey, so much that I had to be held together by among the dearest people I have on the planet, my friend Christopher. I think that he will forever see me differently than many people do, having seen me at my weakest. I am freer to be free with him as a result. I need more people in my life around whom I'm not afraid to cry. I'm getting there.

I remember reaching out to Rickey once before. We went on play-dates with each other as a way of reminding one another how we really should be treated. Both hopeless romantics, all seemed right in the world when love was right. I'm not sure this way of being in the world is especially uncommon, though some would never admit it. I just hope to remember that "love in my life" has a far greater scope than any one person can fill. I hope to honor the reminders I so freely give others when I tell them to "remember to remember to breathe". It's not the breathing that we do naturally, but the deliberate breath-- the intentional honoring of the life force and it's continuation despite the thickness of bigotry and inequality in the world.

Is it any wonder that so many black gay boys have considered suicide, when our very existence is doubly negated by institutionalized racism and homophobia? Is there any wonder that those of us who survive it are among the most strong and resilient beings on the planet? We must find ways to honor this-- to encourage compliments to one another on our achievements and efforts-- even when we fall short. Rickey organized these retreats for brothas in the Bay where they'd go on hiking trips and talk about their lives and living with HIV (or not). These were affirming spaces where brothas left the hike feeling better about themselves than when they came. When the retreats were over, I wonder if Rickey felt better. Such selflessness can take an eventual toll on the strongest of us. While I never had the privilege of attending one of Rickey's outdoor retreats, I'm all the more rededicated to ensure these kinds of events go on, in memory of his legacy. But at the end of the day, when this warrior I've become has put down the shield and sword from the day's battle, I'm also rededicating myself to my own self-care, to learning how to relax, to saying no to "work" guised as "opportunity". I've gotta learn how to say I'm tired or need rest. I am best for us all, if I can learn to be better to me. This is perhaps the most difficult lesson I learned from Rickey. Every day since his passing, I've remembered him. Each day I plan to make good on the lesson I gave to him, but that was, as much, meant for me: "remember to remember to breathe!"

What Brave Souls are made of...

Back in May, two other HIV+ brothas and I (Erik Chambers, l, and Monte J. Wolfe, r) launched a new organization called Brave Soul Collective that seeks to provide an alternative to the stigma, secrecy, and shame that many brothas who love brothas associate with their lives. We understood early that this would not be done without the support and collaboration with our HIV- brothas and sistas, so we're now experiencing what happens when you open a big closet door at the proverbial/metonymic black community center and everyone, poz and neg, gay/bi/sgl or straight-identified, OUT and DL, men and women (who strive to love and better support us), begin to keep it real for real about things. It's pretty powerful!

If this is the kind of space you believe is worth nurturing, check us out. It costs nothing to be a part of this community except the request to be more brave, than you (perhaps) believe is possible. We've launched a very wonderful website:

www.bravesoulcollective.org

where brothas (and, on occassion, sistas) are encouraged to talk very openly about topics: body image, sex (yes, detailed stuff), depression and suicide prevention, HIV/AIDS testing, care and lifestyle, relationships and dating, music and the arts, etc... Check out the Message Board, but also Artist Feature (we've had Lalah Hathaway and Frenchie Davis in past months), Topic of the Month (this month, relationships), and other pages.

It's among the things I'm most proud of. Inspired by the late Essex Hemphill's poem "For My Own Protection," I once wrote that I wanted "to start an organization to help save my life". I believe that I have.... but it's about much more than my life, happiness, joy.... standing in my truth. It's about providing a space where others feel welcome to do so; and know there's a community of Brave Souls who will hold their truth.... and them too.

That's whassup!

FYI: We'll be hosting an introduction of BSC at In the Life Atlanta/Atlanta Black Pride on Saturday, September 2nd at the Host Hotel. For more details, continue checking this blog entry or the website. Our face to face meetings are just as powerful. We've had them in DC, Chicago, and now ATL. It's less about the organization in progress, than the community finally standing up to speak for itself, instead of being reduced to media "DL" soundbites.

Remembering Our Love, Remembering Rickey

First Flight
(for Rickey Williams)
written July 27, 2006

on monday he took first flight
leapt to his death
face cutting air
arms surrendering like the tears
i'd wiped goodbye
many times before

he fell as if meant to fly
no confidence in wings
and some of us knew he was an angel
but he didn't believe us
some devil echo of self-doubt
made him believe we were tricksters
salesmen of empty promises
some muthafucker in his head
promised peace in the valley of the Bay

(exhale)

so he jumped
into baptismal waters
to be born again
took flight into the only option
he felt would bring him peace
but everyone knows
no one survives that fall
into the feeling that pain ends
when life does

cuz life is so much bigger than any pain
i sometimes stretch my lens
beyond peripheral vision
to see all the hope around me
all the arms willing to hold me up
when I feel like falling
feel like disremembering
I'm a reason somebody loves living

(when in hell, ex-hell)

because depression is another
of our dirty secrets
doesn't happen to black boys
our suicides are not as often
sharp dramatic leaps
self-induced strange fruit noose
our suicidal tendencies be subtle
are unprotected sex, gangsta gattin,
drug escapisms, cuz "we don't give a fuck"
we do not as often leap
except when in that tight-fit
where death seems a most urgent
place of peace

the golden gate harbors a cemetary
for colored boys who've committed suicide
though some would prefer to believe
only white folks do shit like that
only white folks prop chairs below ceiling fans
have hearty last suppers
prepared with ingredients
from medicine cabinets
only white folks break when broken
and am tired of our bullshit
lying to ourselves

(exhale)

I only wish that i could have been
his savior
(again)
break bread with him
write another poem on his skin
to remind him not to forget
he is beautiful
when he disremembers
but on Monday he lost sight
took flight
and I was not there
to shake him out of it
did not get a call
was not given the chance to give my all
be the savior he has been for me

on tuesday i got the news
a friend held me through tears
my eyes are still recovering from the flood-rush
i recall my psych ward downspiral
when he appeared
held my hand, wiped tears from my face
reminded me of hope
beyond the overwhelming darkness
obscuring my shine
and the light it provided for black boys
like him

(in hell)

on wednesday i had to deliver the news to others
it is thursday
i still do not know why
i disappeared from his scope
so i will live
if only to continue being
reason enough for people to keep living
even when I struggle with that same darkness
that acute lapse of judgement
when hurting overshadows joy
I'll remember his first flight
as reason enough
to catch myself
ensure his poetry
takes shape through my next breath

inhale
exhale
remember to breathe
___________________________________

For a continuous effort to keep the memory of Rickey alive, as well as other photos of my beautiful friend, go to:

http://www.our-memories-of.com/Rickey_Williams/Home.aspx

hate resides between a rock and hard place

So herein lies a situation where a population of people vastly affected by AIDS/HIV addresses their state of emergency by doing what black churches around the U.S. have been trying to do for years: address HIV/AIDS without addressing, and in some cases promoting, blantant HOMOPHOBIA against people who have been vastly affected by the epidemic: homosexual men. The homocidal violence promoted by Beenie Man and TOK featured in LIFEbeat's forthcoming July 18th concert cannot be simply dismissed as a respect for free cultural expression when these lyrics have direct impress on cultures who manifest-- with growing and unchecked proliferation of such hate via music-- an increase in violence against gay and lesbian people.

At the same time, you have privileged Westren political institutions (yes, even black gay ones) who sometimes arrogantly impose their ethical mass to block concerts as a show of intolerance with homophobia. Unfortunately, they sometimes also block the opportunity for conversation. The result seems to a symbolic reaffirmation of cultural imperialism and political egocentrism forced fed to a population of often disenfranchised people who understandibly resist such "activist" efforts in favor of their own "resistance speak" (whether or not they actually and truly hate gay people or not). Hating homosexuals becomes conflated with hating the nation that seems to so quickly come to their defense-- a nation that often unfairly stigmatizes Caribbean homophobia as indicative of their cultural backwardness. Do I think that Beenie Man's and TOK's songs killed people? NO. Do I think they deepen and normalize the already existing hate and homophobia of a society that has too easily conflated gay protest as indicative of global white supremacy at work? YES!

A hip hop artist who can give an expansive list of homophobic quotes from Hip Hop artists, I'm not sure we respond as quickly to expose hypocrisy with our own artists. How many celebs have vowed to fight AIDS while showing evidence of homophobia. It's the American way. Let's be consistent.

Let's stop being lazy!

I just think that there has to be some other way to address this hate between rocks and hard spaces... and perhaps a blog posting and some conversation and visibility about it, whatever lack of resolve I have about the efforts to be advesarial with LIFEbeat, is one way to accomplish that.

We should protest, but the objective should be to engage in dialogue. Merely shutting a show down may do more to impede progress than advance it.

You are encouraged to vist Keith Boykins's website at:

http://www.keithboykin.com/arch/2006/07/11/black_gay_blogg

and share your opinion. Feel free also, of course, to share them here.


Yours in this (beautifully complicated) struggle!



Tim'm
(who thanks you all for the happy 34th Birthday wishes)

chipping off the old block (a father's day reflection)

chip 1.

my heart is senseless
it makes as much sense
as driving 5 hours
on father's day
for a 15 minute visit
to gaze into the eyes
of the man whose seed
became my becoming
only to recognize
how little we know about each other
how cliche' conversations have become:
"how's basketball?
you liftin?
which boy is it now?"
i want to get beneath the surface
of words
reveal the sincerity of our silence
for what we are perhaps both
afraid to admit:
I may be more like him
than i'd like to be.

just hours later
i do not remember
the soft of his hug
for all the ways he raised us tough
his kisses came closest
to resolving the neglect.
among the sweetest memories
of my boyhood
was having people see "rev." and "coach"
kiss the same lil boy
he said tackled either
"like a sissy" or "too mean"
I could never find the in-between
i still do not know when and where
his molding began
or when it will end.

chip 2.

i had hoped pops
would relish my trip
as brave
me sacrificing time sandwiched between
work and work
just so he can be reminded
I've still got the chisel of his mask.
I had hoped pops
would understand
my drive
as flowing from the same well of passion
that has made him fall to fast
scratch dirt in the knee-scrapes
trying to clean them off
and perhaps
my thick muscularity and baritone
are evidence enough
that I'm still a tough cookie
if often and ironically
an unhappy gay

I'd hoped he would think more
of the sentiment i wrote in the card
than the modest monetary token
he ripped the envelope to claim
but he left the card and broken envelope
in the back seat
money gone
the clash of hallmark cliche'
with poetry I wrote
as insecurely as
the wear and tear of our
guydance

chip 3.

i wanted to leave something behind
but he left it carelessly discarded
so I have taken it back with me
like the image of him
across from me at McDonalds
post 60 salt and pepper masculinity,
still cocky and fearless
like I'm sometimes not sure
I will get to live to be:
confident in spite of emo-clutter
left behind
and people trying to forgive
a lovingly foolish heart

like the nervous drive
i will blame on transmission issues
hands shaking in route
I still went to meet the man
insecure that i am enough,
some approximation
of whatever will make him proud
so I am not certain that i will ever
live down the ways
I'm second born
root rusted and cornfed like him
hands not as hardened
though thick with the wrestle
of heartquakes
and heavy breaths

chip 4.

i shared with him
evidence of the ways my heart has become
clumsy, like his has been known to be
and he smiled
teeth not as bright as his aura:
"YOU A WEST
a chip off the old block"
I'm not sure I found it funny
but I suppose
he is right

because i will continue
to drive hours
for the possibility of 15 minutes of love
will continue to fall as hard
as dominos are slapped
on cardboard tables
i'll continue to seek
the man i am becoming
till i can look in the mirror,
like I look at my father
and say with full resolve
"you did ahhite!"

Foolish Heart

For being the source of HIS, my tears will find no resolve in the sheets that catch them, only through him, who from the day I met him, has been my most beloved; my most perfect friend.

Shakespeare's Othello, before he took the blade to his heart did say:
"you must speak of one who loved not wisely, but too well"

if I have never understood this quote I have taught for years, I do now. There is a song for this feeling... My heart will archive a compilation for this fall. When my cherished one finds the heart to come to my aid, forgive the errors of my heart's ways, I may be given permission, only then, to forgive my foolish heart. Others will have to forgive the quiet, the blank stare, the prospect that I may beg pain's permission (again) to write poems. My pen fails me as my heart has. And perhaps there is reason for it all... Maybe someday it'll all make sense.
______________________

Foolish Heart First appeared on Street Talk
(Columbia Records 39334)
1984 Street Talk Tunes, April Music Inc & Random Notes)
(Steve Perry, Randy Goodrum)

I need a love that grows
I don't want it unless I know
With each passing hour
Someone somehow
Will be there
Ready to share

I need a love that's strong
I'm so tired of being alone
But will my lonely heart
Play the part
Of the fool again
Before I begin

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore

Feelin' that feelin' again
I'm playin' a game I can't win
Love's knockin' on the door
Of my heart once more
Think I'll let her in
Before I begin

Foolish Heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

(keyboard solo)

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Oh foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

Foolish, foolish heart
Foolish heart

Brave Soul Collective

"Brothas Gonna Work it Out, Brothas gonna work it out". The time and circumstances call for courage when, as my Brave Soul compadre Erik Chambers says, "silence is more toxic than the virus itself".  

check out the Brave Soul Collective:

www.washblade.com/2006/5-26/locallife/feature/group.cfm

www.bravesoulcollective.org

coming to Brave Souls near you!

20001

this soil that always drawls me
back
i prepare to leave (again)
having found
its Southern charm
forgiven its ostentatious pretense
longed for more of its lure and magic
this second time around

i leave wondering
why I always wander back
down alphabet streets
across checkerboard blocks
where yuppies and niggaz
ignore the shortening distance
between what it was, is
and will be: D.C.

and it be
that pit stop on the way to
my next somewhere
shifting as i stir
most beautiful
when it's not trying to be
the ruse of bling
cradled in asphalt

this place where
artists are professionals
(on the side)
and vice versa
to make ends make sense
will always be home to me
though being so close
to the powers that run the world
can run one mad or away

still I will miss
these same streets where
i first affirmed
there were others here
drawn to the possibility of finding
(people like) themselves
and it seems I have always left
this blues alley
frustrated with the ways it failed
to be a place that would hold
more than
a few bitter-sweet memoires
but some of the most cherished ones
I have
are here:
The birthday present I got at 33,
Front Porches, Fireplaces
all the dances between them
captivating the prospect
of being cherished
like I will always cherish
this place where i tried...
and learned what it meant to be
cherished

will miss its
wireless coffee shop cubicles
where i've dredged inspiration
to write wrongs
overstand the lessons they provide
erect museums with the open journals
that are my pulse and cure

and i have waited the weight of human traffic
at this vast intersection of America
where states collide at red lights
and freaks come out at night
for a taste of freedom


a taste linked to
my palate's insistence
to mambo my chicken til it drips
to be the black-clack go-go
I'm unlikely to feel
(quite the same)
anywhere else

and like these poems
trapped in my fingers
that have become songs,
my blakkboy blues
are rooted here
so i remember there are places
i have never wanted to leave
for fear of being forgotten
and there is a place
i have always preferred to leave
to return to

I'm moving to Chicago in JULY and it's all HIS Fault!!!

I'm moving to Chicago in July and it's all HIS fault!!! Seriously... I am very happy. And for those who know me, you know that distance or space between has never broken the intensity of our connectedness. Congratulate! It's what I've waited for. Please read the poem below.  

Sum Total

(for Bryan Christopher Smith)

he is
sum total of everything
I have already written
on loving
ask me how I know
and sense
the assurance of a mother
who recognizes
the scent and twinkle
of her first born
when multitudes of tots
dart their brashness
past first day of school
exit bells
run out be claimed
by air and expectancy
and find their most beloved
who claims
with the extension of arms
and with reciprocal knowingness:
that one is mine

he is my sum total
the embodiment
of brilliant possibility
and claiming that everything
that could be
is here and ready to become
this present moment:
the exchange of rings
a commitment ceremony
mappings of deferred dreams
the topography of shared tomorrows
the fulfillment of landscape,
of this home we've been building
all our lives
perhaps unknowingly
through the ware and tear
of past heart-hurt

i am his sum total
something more firm
than visionary volitions
and realizing too late
that it was never meant
for anyone
to believe in love
alone
that faith must be shared
and so when really real?
we wake with the confidence
that every plus and minus
every approximation of perfection
each exponent of faith
seeming to subtract
hopes to increase love itself,
the probability of a lifetime
have been waiting
for now

so for the first time
we do not adore this way alone
do not claim and write
and dream
we've found it
alone
do not fall too fast alone
ask me how i know?
and I'll tell you to call him
look at him
speak with him
hear the passion-tremor
of a man as bold
as any challenge or caution
that this is not real
or will not work out
has not been given time enough
look at him
see in his eyes
anything that suggests
everything he has worked for
every pain he has endured
is not the calculus
of his most lucid dream
of a lifetime with his sum total

ask him how he knows
i am good for him so soon?
he'll ask
if you get anything different
from me
beyond the symmetry of knowing
true loves will always follow their hearts
so our families and friends
will have to get over themselves
overcome their precautions and anxiety
and understand
there are dreamers
who keep dreams hostage to fear
and those who damn the dream
and do the damn thing

in this case
we found each other
so celebrate that with us
ask him how he knows
ask him if this poem
is nothing less
than my vow of faith
to be, stay, abide
with nothing less
than the sum-total
of all past belief
that I am worthy of the best things
and am finally realizing
that at the end of the day
I am one who wants to know
I was brave enough to brave the risk
again
that I will never "do me" differently

and
those who know me
simply know
go’head, ask them how they know
and they'll say
"that damn boy is at it again"
with a smile as gracious
as the one I hold
in the presence of my sum-total