Tag Archives: love

Post the Third 2 or Sometimes all you need is a love poem

Open

Like the scent of orchids

Open

Like the whisper of baby’s breath

Open

Like

Sometimes I wonder why I love you

And remember the feel of your palm

As it moves up the inside of my

Thigh

My breath catching

Open

Like the way your lips travel

Around my navel

Causing thoughts of oceans to

Bloom

Open

Like losing myself your crevices

Trying to come up for air

But sinking deeper into the folds

Of your love

Sometimes the distances

Seem so insurmountable

The bridge between us

So narrow

A drop more perilous then

Death

But still

You open to me

Allow yourself to be

Vulnerable for me

Let me hold your heart

In my own flawed

Hands

To murmur sweet words

And study the road maps to the

Core of who you

Are

Sometimes all you need

is a love poem

Sometimes all you need

is that kind word

to remember your greatness

And sometimes all you need

are dreams and fairy tales

to survive

But

Most of the time

I need something more solid

Like the weight of your body pressed

Over mine

Or milk and honey spoon

fed under moon

light

Or that one time I had an asthma attack

And you came rushing

Held me close to your chest

And with your kiss

Made my heart

expand

Sometimes I wonder

Why you love me

Then I write a love poem

And remember

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Post the One Hundredth or On Radical Compassion

This is for the anon who asked what radical compassion means. For me, the common understanding of compassion is that we sympathize with those who are suffering and seek to ameliorate their suffering. Because of their suffering, they are deserving of our pity. We feel bad of them and so we do what we can to help. And while this is all well and good,  there is a very shallow understanding of the root of suffering or why people suffer. Put in another way, regular compassion just seeks to make someone feel better. It is a Pollyanna, “lets all just get along”, “you poor thing here is a cookie” response to suffering. It is individualistic and fails to see the bigger picture. It sees suffering as an unfortunate occurrence that exists in a vacuum that lacks context. Regular compassion is silent on why people suffer.

And those who experience suffering have access to this type of compassion only if they behave in appropriate ways. In other words, you only get compassion if you play nice and don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

Radical compassion, on the other hand, stands in solidarity with those who are suffering. It examines the interpersonal, systemic, institutional and structural reasons for suffering. It seeks to locate the individual sufferer within the greater social context. It understands that suffering is systemic and that those under more axises of oppression generally suffer more. Radical compassion seeks to challenge these causes of suffering and allows the sufferer the freedom to react and engage with their suffering in anyway that they see fit. In other words, those who are suffering are allowed to rage and scream and be angry and still receive compassion. Radical compassion does not pity the sufferer. Rather, it seeks to fight with the sufferer to end suffering.

Radical compassion seeks to end suffering on a systemic level. Regular compassion just seeks to help out the individual sufferer. And that is ok, as far as it goes. But I don’t think it goes far enough.

Another way to describe radical compassion is by saying that it is fiercely gentle. It has your back and understands where you are coming from and seek justice with you.


Post the Ninety-Seventh or Make Love to Rage

The words

Born from my fingers

Glitter like blood

In flames

Forming visions

That cause my heart

To freeze

Wings alight

On the lids

Of my eyes

Femme Fierceness

She says

Is a birthright

To power

And sorrow

Dressed in the color

Of glory

Walking through worlds

Watching

Waiting

With eyes the darkness

Of space

Chief Spence

Sits

In her tipi

Filled with legacies

Of betrayal

Her belly

As empty as the promises

Made

By white men

But she stands

Tough

With iron encased will

Femme Fierceness

Can topple

Empires

I want

To get married

To shields and spears

Wear a wedding dress

Made of morning stars

And a veil

Of daggers

Make love to rage

And bust open

Across six continents

Revealing the dismembered

Bodies and

Broken

Land

Holding it all

Femme Fierceness

Does

Not

Flinch

My friend

Stands there

Shaking

Trying to

Re

Move

Trespasses

That mark her

Mascara running

Nose bleeding

I hold her

Imagining

The most exquisite

Revenge against rapists

Femme Fierceness

Does not

Take

Prisoners

Terror

Is a familiar

Bedfellow

The threat of violence

A constant companion

Pale shadows that

Dance across my body

Following me down

Alleys

Up streets

Into home

And

Soaked sheets

Twist around

My face

Femme Fierceness

Feels fear

But

Never backs

Down

I am

A fierce femme

A big

Scarlet fuck you

Ejaculated across

Masculinity’s face

They do not own

Me and my

Silence cannot be

Bought


Post the Ninety-Third or A Breath of Chocolate

Anger comes easy. Anger is something that I’ve always known. It is a hard, bristling carapace that keep out things that hurt me. A scab that has been ripped off and reformed so many times, I no longer feel it. But even still, I don’t mind it. It has its uses. It keeps me safe. I thought that I was impenetrable. Until I met him.

The day was hot. The kind of hot that gets into your lungs and brain. Sluggish heat that makes it hard to breathe and even harder to find motivation to do anything but lay on the floor like a salamander. Stretching one’s limbs so that one can find some whisper of coolness. And yet, the cafe still managed to be filled with regulars. Yuppies and hippes rubbing shoulders in a house turned coffee shop. The wooden floors worn from years of domestic and buisness related traffic. Art of varying degrees of skill adorned the forest green walls. I had just finished cleaning the counter for a second time and I stared at the clock, willing it go faster. It was with relief, than, that he was here. Finally something to do.

“What can I get you, sir?”

He stood with his arms crossed as he studied the menu. “What’s good here?”

I rake my eyes across his body, up and down once, smirking “Well, I really like a tall cup of hot black coffee. Drink you- I mean, it, all day”

He gives me a look that says, you-are-either-trying-really-hard-or-are-you-this-corny-all-the-time.

“I also make a mean Americano. Two shots poured over ice, with a cool breath of chocolate.”

He smiles, “Sounds refreshing. But does it taste as good as it sounds?”

I lean over the counter, trying to emphasize my clevage, “You’ll just have to taste it to find out.”

He licks his lips, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll take one, then.”

I smile wickedly and set about making his drink. I steal covert glances at him over the espresso machine as I grind the coffee and pour the shot, hot and fresh. I noticed the way he carried himself, how he interacted with his surroundings. Gentle, yet I could tell that he did not suffer fools. He seemed cuddly but I knew he could cut me just as easily. It hit me, he was trans*.

The ice melts slightly as I pour the hot shots over it and drizzle the chocolate. I can say without ego that it was probably the best drink I had ever made.

“Here you go, sir.” I say, as I pass him the coffee. Our hands brush past each other, his rough with shared history, mine soft with hidden experiences. He grabs my wrist tightly, turning my hand so that he could examine my palm. He looks up and our eyes meet. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Any-Anything else I can grab you?” It’s my turn to be slightly uncomfortable. And yet, I was strangely aroused. Who was this man?

“No, thank you. How much is it?”

“It’s uh… On the house.”

He smiles, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, what’s your name?”

“Säyn.”

“Säyn…” I repeated, feeling the way his name sounded on my tongue. “I’ll be seeing you.”

We saw each other a few more times, that summer in 2010. I was working at this queer coffeeshop and he would come in every once and a while, always when I was working. He would get the same thing and I would always give it to him for free. We would flirt a little, chat about small things. We even exchanged numbers at one point. But for some reason, we never got around to getting together outside of the shop. Sometimes he would come in with his partner, sometimes he wouldn’t. But every time he came in, he smiled and my chest got a little tight.

And then I left, went back to Boston. I reenrolled in school and got several part time jobs. It was a cold winter and I knew with even more certainty that Boston was not the city for me. I was going through the motions but I was never fully present there. I kept looking for a way out, for something different. I knew I need to return to Austin. And I didn’t see him for almost a year.

Its September 2011 and I’m back in Austin working at a queer youth community center. But my time there as an organizer is a story for another time.

At the time, I was leading an effort to restructure the organization and so we need a space to hold our meeting. One of my co-workers offered her home, which she had recently moved into. We, of course, agreed. It was a cool, clear night and the place was packed with young people, adults and queer organizers. I was in the middle of facilitating a discussion about strategies and tactics when the front door opens and who walks in but Säyn.

I stand there dumbfounded, mouth agape. Here was someone who I never thought I would see again, walking into a meeting that I never expected to have.

Once the meeting ended, I moved quickly.

“Hey, Säyn!”

He smiled, eyes brightening with recognition. “Hi, Morgan. Its good to see you again.”

“Its good to see you too. What have you been up too?”

“This and that,” He replied vaguely “You?”

“Oh you know, saving the world, one queer youth at a time.” I returned slyly. I knew that I would have to chase a little harder if I wanted to get anywhere with him.

He laughed, “Step up from slinging coffee, then.”

“Several. We should kick it sometime soon.”

“No doubt. No doubt. I’m having a music video release party this Saturday. You should come.”

I smiled, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The next 4 weeks were a blur of late night coffee, chain smoking and iPod make out sessions. We would always find some sort of pretense to see each other. The second night we saw each other, he stole my lighter. He said it wasn’t intentional, but I knew better. He would pick me up after work and we would be up until 4 or 5 o clock in the morning, talking about everything from radical politics to the way we liked our Brussels sprouts cooked.

I remember being in his car on those first few nights. He said to me, “I’m in an open relationship. But we can’t have anything serious. This is just casual.”

Famous last words.

For those first weeks, we didn’t kiss. We barely had any physical contact at all. The first night I slept over at his house, I made sure to sleep stark naked. But we didn’t fuck. We didn’t even cuddle! At first I was worried that he was only interested in a platonic relationship but then I would look into his eyes and feel how his body reacted to mine. I knew he wanted me, could feel the intensity of his ardor for me. But it was one of the few times that anyone wanted my whole self, not just my body and what it could do for them.

It was a strange and not unpleasant sensation, feeling that want for me that was deeper than the skin.

I, of course, was throughly in love. Or at the very least, in very, very, very deep like. But one thing was certain; there was nothing casual between us.

He quickly and insidiously worked his way beneath the prickly steel that I encased myself in. He eased his way gently into the soft chinks of my armor, pried them loose and tranquilized the raw, chafed skin underneath. By the time I noticed that he had gotten past my defenses, it was already to late. He had me.

And I had him.

We had each other and our passion for one another opened my eyes to knew ways of being. Suddenly, I was thinking about babies and houses and what particular dish I wanted to cook for dinner and would you mind if we used the purple tablecloth tonight? I, the jaded radical who laughed at the thought of anything so soft as love, was in love. But the open scorn I had for love was merely a facade that masked my desire to be soft with someone. I would wake up some nights cold with the longing to have someone near me. Anyone to press their tender flesh against mine and share those intimate parts of myself. Something different than the raw, animal fetishization that I was used to.

I longed to be seen. Wholly and holistically seen.

And so I was. Seen with a clarity that still scares me, excites me, makes me smile. Sweet, secret smiles that arise unbidden, tugging the side of my lips up in spite of myself.

Anger still comes easily. But the contours of my anger are angled differently, today. Sharpened in some places, tempered in others. Encased in suppleness.

Being loved in spite of my fear has allowed me to breathe.


Post the Eighty-Eighth or Juntos

Rough edges

Grate across each

Other’s

Heart

Words fall

Like drops

Out of your mouth

Into sore wounds

I never knew what love looked like

But you showed me

The inside of your flesh

And I remembered

My

Self

Re-membered

Love is only ever

What we give

The sun lies

Across the mountain

Paining the sky crimson and gold

I turn to see

Your face outlined

In scrub bush and nettle

Your lips the color of

Twilight

Qué es el cariño

Entre dos cuerpos

Constantly atropellado by the world

When the only sure thing

Is death?

Querido

Keep your palm pressed

Against mine

And don’t be afraid

Porque estamos

Juntos


Post the Sixty-Seventh or Distance

Distance

That place where time and space meet

Which is infinitesimally small

And infinitely large

Boundless possibilities exist

In the distance between two people

The distance between two hearts

It is in that distance that we see ourselves

Reflected

In the other

In that distance

Where we find ourselves

Quite by accident

Unsure of how we got there

Not knowing where to go from here

But aware that this distance

In this moment

Is precious

Unlike anything we have ever experienced

Exhilarating

Like the view of New York City from the Empire State Building

Feeling like one false step could sending you plummeting

And yet knowing that you are safe

Terrifying

Like the first glimpse of the endless expanse of the Pacific

Knowing that you could drown in those dark, unfathomable depths

But feeling like you could float to islands unknown

Where sweet fruits and soft sands await

It is in this distance between you and I, my love,

where I meet myself

And realize that I have always known you

Always loved you

It is in this distance that I

Realize that goddesses could die

Empires could fall

Worlds could crumble

lovers could move on

And I will still be here

Loving you

As hard and as fiercely as the day we met

Regardless if we are fucking or not

Because you are my family

And if we aren’t there for each other

To celebrate our victories

Or

When the distance between hatred

And our bodies close

Than who?


Post the Sixty-Sixth or Why I am a Fierce Bitch

Every morning I paint my face

With three words stuck on repeat

Fierce

Devastating

Sickening

Every day I pound the pavement

With three words stuck on repeat

Tough

Hard

Untouchable

My look is my life

And my walk keeps me safe

Because I know what happens to young brown

Trans women

If we are not being harassed

Beaten

Or killed

Then our voices

And the narratives that we have written for ourselves

Are being ignored

Discounted

Or invalidated

Whether I am at a queer party

Or walking home late at night

I need to be read

And read well

Perhaps that’s why I get so frustrated

When the brush doesn’t do precisely as I demand

I look in the mirror knowing

That to fuck up

Is to take a risk I can’t afford

Perhaps thats why my face

Is carefully sculpted into two expressions

“Don’t fuck with me”

and

“Really don’t fuck with me”

I look into the eyes of others knowing

That to show weakness

Is to invite death

They were surprised

When he told them that I was a sweetheart

He told me

I see you

And I am shocked

That anyone has the eyes

To truly see me

And what a blessing that is.

Every night I lay next to my lover

With three words stuck on repeat

Love

Love

Love