sitting with things to say, suspended in time,
learning how to control the blooming of my colors.
I am a queer container. Who came into organizing
for the electric eel of imagined change.
sitting with things to say, suspended in time,
learning how to control the blooming of my colors.
I am a queer container. Who came into organizing
for the electric eel of imagined change.
Last night I watched a thousand footer leave the Twin Ports. After twenty two years in Duluth, I still marvel at how these ships move through open water. The gritty grand aesthetic equals an eye bending immensity, a slow soft rumble of engineered science, and enormity’s unbelievable ability to stay afloat. I also balked at the name of the boat. Bah “american integrity”. WTF?!
Lucille’s poetry is a ‘shimmer of influence, a kind of glimmering evidence of something beyond oneself’.
I think of such Shimmers and Glimmers as Risky Creativity and often, all letter-writing-love like, put pen to paper and stamp to envelope to explore such honeycombing, queer magic.
Yes, it’s the month I meld into my couch. I’ve been intimate with Women’s March Madness for 21 years. Every “spring'“ as winter on our bigLake refuses to give up center court, demanding another round of celebrity, reminding us who last/every year’s climactic champion is in wavy, drama-queen kind of ways, I watch. Embrace sweaty ESPN-flavored enthusiasms. And watch and watch.
Poetry penned after listening to fabulous episode of ‘Bedroom Eyes’ podcast (an intimate analysis of agency, ethics, relationships, and identity as experienced within oppressive systems of power hosted by badAss brown, queer, non-monogamous community organizer Juno Mariah) about autonomous relating- a not so distant moon of relationship anarchy.
Songs with sexual themes- spanning the subvert to overt, creepy to normative to queer delicious- are everywhere. I’m loving recent conversations in community about tunes that for multiple reasons we’re hearing differently.
This morning I muse on the ways I’m tough skinned. The ways 2023 has asked me and so many of my beLoveds to be both tender hearted and resilient. Tap confidences like we turn up the thermostat, see the gorgeous grain of our surety as strong as wood-cell fibers.
Jordan’s Passion points us not to romantic love or sexual fury but to the tools she uses to make her work memorable, modern, experimental: urgency, time, music, pain, white space, marked silences, hushed pauses, earned wisdom, the language of the female psyche.
Peace for Palestine! and thank you Naomi Shihab Nye- a first teacher about Palestine, a poet whose words changed me at a reading in Texas in 1994.
Recently I was given a button. It reads “Pray for Sex”. I’ve pinned it to my jacket and often forget I’m wearing it- until I get laughs, compliments, or questions. The button reminds me why I started this blog. Why it’s so important to be outside our city’s only abortion clinic during this time of year. Visible and proud and securing space for all folx to make decisions about their bodies.
“There’s a lot of fetching at times about how the world is built for two, and how it holds this one style or this escalator up as a high-status relationship, and everything pales next to it. It’s a highly rigid and conforming way of [experiencing intimacy] that works for many people but doesn’t work for all. “
"As we love, we grieve. As we grieve, we love. With both, we queer our heartbrokenness.” -Lama Rod Owens
“Queer not as being about who you’re having sex with- that can be a dimension of it- but queer as being about the self that is at odds with everything around it and has to invent and create and find a place to speak and to thrive and to live.” - bell hooks
in shapes of epistolary love
in queering quiet intimacies
in love language of spaciousness
Calvocoressi brilliantly uses the segno symbol as a pronoun throughout the book of poems, “representing a confluence of genders in varying degrees, not either/or nor necessarily both in equal measure. It is simultaneously encompassing and fluctuating, pronounced by me with the intake of breath when a body is unlimited in its possibilities.” Rockets of Desire defined on the page- and queerly expanded as well.
I reached through a small square of storage that lives behind one robin-egg blue swinging door in my ballroom apartment. I groped the unlit space for a roasting pan, or wire rack? Something metal and sturdy, instead I met 130 year old wood. A splinter, at least 1.5 inches long, lodged itself into the fleshy alcove between right thumb and forefinger.
I love the smells of the south
That slam me against color
After months in the white cold
I am this wildness too
Twenty nine years ago
My grandma Ruth died
On the twenty-eighth day.
A Swede, the opposite
Of Texas.
“What you thought was the sound of the deer drinking
at the base of the ravine was not their soft tongues
entering the water but my Love tying my bow tie.”
I’m riding trashE dissonance between grad level scholarship on settler sexualities + black&feminist existentialism, a less academic lean into relationship anarchy, and intense cravings to watch rom coms on repeat. Curious, who is queering the science around the “mere exposure effect”?