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Gender Poem 30 years genderqueer and frequently skating the rigid ice separating male and female mostly barefoot. Cursing my frostbitten toes for their betrayal and refusing to protect them by cashing in on often-bought social construction Who would have thought that Coming Out as genderqueer would be one of the hardest things I've ever done in my Life. Not erroneously coming out as a "Lesbian", Writing research papers for institutions, or Going toe-to-toe with professors with different ideologies or Fighting for my colored voice to be heard in a predominantly white classroom. Not standing up for communities of color while taking on chemical plants and the oil industry. Why? Because people can understand those

Struggles. But they don't understand that they are caught in the invisible web called the gender binary. Being a lesbian, or an activist, or an advocate doesn't make me a Freak, But wearing men's clothing and responding to both ma'am and sir and secretly hoping to someday be called by gender neutral pronouns or no pronouns at all makes me a societal reject. A target. The feminists don't understand it. Academic institutions don't get it. The exclusive LGB minus capital T community doesn't understand. I am gender non-conforming, and rather than having this as a banner, or a flagI wear it as a Scarlet Letter. As gender variants we are diseased,abnormal and have a disorder, Chained forever to the DSM IV while other queers have been emancipated. "No surgery for you". "Hormones for you". Waiting for the only way we (or is it you) know how with that M...or that F that

is required to Be and be left alone. Cutting off foreign parts and adding the familiar, New voice. Scarred bodies. Bound Souls. be validated by indifferent ink and scalpeled "allies". Usurping our uteruses and traiterous testicles. Maimed martyrs who only ask for the use of the Proper Pronoun. Bruised, Bound Breasts choking away misguided femininity StillYou look for bumps on necks and chest and call that Male- "she", "Ma'am", "Miss" That painted girl skull doused with wig legs shaved and adorned with skirt and stockingsStillyou call her- "him", "sir", "Mister"

Killing us inside until we take our lives While you refuse to break out of your false binary, or deconstruct your constructions, Sexing us with your eyes. Brutalizing us with your fists. Knived tongues slicing through our spirits, and all because you won't understand. We are not crazy or disordered Nor are we diseased and FUCK your balancesystematically weighing out variation And the comfort you obtain from your boxes and labels We are all human. Identify with our humanity. The only thing that is wrong with us genderqueers is our oppression, it's perpetuation, and your parts in it.

Blanketed: A poem about my Heritage Blanketed. Brown. Rebel. Marking "Other". Refusing to be categorized by a solitary color. Ancestors closeted, suffocated, then buried, But you demand that I know them. Dig them up. Bone. By. Bone. Resurrecting an abolished past. So that you can disaffectionately gaze at the displayAcknowledging with a "Yea. I guess I can see it." While distant cousins twisted-faced and cold-shouldered say that I am not one of them. I belong to the intersection of countriesforced to mate during colonialism, to love matches, rape, violence, and indifference. My heritage one of protective hiddenism and forgetfulness Rolling of forked tongues and cold understanding eyes in one syllable "Mutt."

But what's in a tragedy? I don't remember the sounds of Africa, the touch of the islands, the sights of the Old Americas, the smells of India, or the taste of Europe. In this country we must Assimilate. On this surgically clean- white slate. I.Am.Black. And my mother is tight-lipped and accepting. Why dig up the roots of an already felled tree? Assimilate. 1. Drop. At. A. Time. Her deceptive high cheek bones sandy reddish-brown hair. Freckles. Shh. Quiet now. She. is. Black. 1 drop dictates her past. She has since tuned out. Make her dance. Thank her for her stringed performance andforce a bow andtoss her back in her ancestored closet full of noose, drums, and failed uprisings.

Rub off the war paint, extinguish the ceremonial fires with guttered gulf, and flush the henna in the Atlantic. She. is. Just. Black. Speak skin and bone Djembe, dhol, drum caged in rib, I am more than brown skin, coarse hair, and satin pillowed lips, I. am. 5 Kissing Continents Lovers over time Now shy of their former embrace Forbidden exchanges, Five backs to backs Cross-armed denying any advances. Until on the 2nd of November, I conjure them, country by country cell by cell to honor them though it is NOT my Holiday Though our roots touch gingerly beneath the soil steeped in forgetfulness and little bits of cloud-colored styrofoam aerate constituents of my soul Root upon root

Bark and Branch my ancestors call to me it wasn't until I left home that I heard their stifled cries, Hearing music from far away lands that my spirit remembers but that I've long forgotten, because of that fateful label "Black." That one syllable leaves me lameblinded but not deaf, An attempted assassination of my multi-colored spirit As I listen to the melodies of my ancestors homelandsI remember...I remember that I am more than mono-colored more than one box ticked absent-mindedly on some sheet of papernot easily categorized and I will NOT jump into your narrow lables to make you feel better, or to make your census make more sense So I cast your blanket to the bedside of 5

shared continents I fill all your boxes or check "Other" So that you cannot erase my Roots. I snip at my mother's strings and unstitch her beautiful velvet lips, And my spirit soars, as my ancestors all dance togetherdrummingin their circle, UNburied. UNcloseted. and Free.

Soothsayer Soil Only the soil knows What I am Capable of A witness of Centuries past The same “soil� That soothed The blistered feet Of my great-great- grandparents Trampled by time And inappreciative first world Inhabitants intellectuals only the earthen clay of my foremothers knows my capacity Diplomas and degrees All shaped from foliage now fettering my future with fake promises Only the dirt that Kissed by the sun birthed edible evolution has any inkling of my hopes and dreams a continuation of the aspirations of many Peoples not meant to survive who now lay unwillingly blanketed by the land they once toiled

Only the soil Holds the answer I’ve searched for For far too long In ivory towers Where it is swept awayA nuisance.

Post-Racial Who? What can I saysometimes I feel down being brown in this supposedly god fearing town nobody ever gave me the lowdown that no matter how much education and experience I accumulate I'll get shot down In the 2 minutes before the interview even starts Doesn't matter the size of my portfolio how packed and pretty the resume doesn't matter if I'm extremely smart Cuz though I can change my clothes and walk the walk fortunately but unfortunately this brown does not come off I can- change my ethnocentric name to play the game but dreads, braids no sirthe white managers will all confer and concur

that I'm not a “good cultural fit� see, too much culture gives the vultures ulcers and frankly I'm tired of it-

Tired of working 5 times as hard only to be the first to be scarred Marred by the rampant racism cataclysm between brown and white The overseer never died he just changed face, still subjected and subjugated to micromanaging oversight because of my race I'm battling perceptions pre-dating my birth There's a whole society out there who claims to already know my price tag, my worth And being queer is only the icing on the cake, because institutions go out of their way to pay us less tell us to give them even more as they take, take, take I'm brown so I deserve less It's expected that

I will live a life of stress expected to supress not express invisible tattoo on my chest My back's a bridge I'm paid a smidge And people may say we're in a post-racial society but clearly they don't peep the vestige of 400+ years of captivity and 60 years of feigned freedom excuse me for my negativity but it's hard to smile when all the while the white man's foot is on my neck and I can't get an ounce of respect and don't even have time to reflect and time is a resource that I'm afraid I can't cover with my miniscule or nonexistent check No we can't afford to leave work early go in late grassroots organize while our kids sit at home with empty stomachs and plates We have other prioritiesThat will not be met With unemployment because of Discrimination

Condemnation Segregation Homophobia Xenophobia Degradation and a whole list of -Isms is it these isms that got young brothers not driven opportunities not given silent doors no knocks but next door chicken joints and shops that sell glocks easier to get and kill two for the price of one yet white people swear to me that racism is steadily being undone this whole talkin out the side of their face while getting a facial that this society is post-racial that it doesn't dictate how I talk where I walk where's available to shop

their stealth stares my health care If I'll ever be chair if I can make it there If this society is so interstitial and the power is flowin' equally from individual to individual Can all I just said be superficial? If so,

here. sign over your first born signature and initials.

Genderf*ck After half a ride Hitting on me The cabby Asks me Am I a boy or a girl? He peers into the rear view Mirror, Thick eyebrows furrowed, Expectantly, As if I owe him An answer, Like cab fare “What?” I sayNot so much out of surpriseBut so as to gather what My answer will be“You know- girl or boy?” As if knowing what’s Between my legs, (Solving this riddle) Will make his day, Be an answer to his troubles. I laugh and ignore The question- peering At the trees passing by

Us that don’t have to answer Ridiculous questionsDo we ask them their gender? I remember buying three apple trees Because the first two were the same gender I was told by the clerk that they wouldn’t Bear any fruitAnd I wanted fruit…didn’t I? But the cabbie keeps goingStudying my features in the mirror. I ask him if he usually asks His customers this question And suppress the urge to Say that in America- this is not polite. In fact, it’s quite rude. I’m sure that where he’s from It’s not polite either, And I’m not convinced that The change of a continent would Mean more tact on his part. I ignore him and He tells me… He tells me… Get thisHe tells me to Smile and Be Happy. Harrasses meThen tells me to smile And be happy, That sometimes his customers

Are happy and sometimes they aren’t as if I am obviously the latter. So he can tell my Countenance By my not answering Some rude ass questionAt some point between Sly grins I tell him I’m neither And he assumes there is a Language barrier. He says I have to Be one of the other and Stops shy of asking me What’s in between my legsI grin again and say both “Both? What does that mean?” I stare out the window and let him mull it over. I start to text someone So he’ll leave me aloneStop talking to meStop asking questions with Answers he can’t possibly Fathom. He can’t understand that I’m a boib.o.i. To him I’m just a Vagina in boy’s clothing. It seemed to get him off at first.

Sometimes I wonder about “straight guys” who Hit on me not knowing if I am penis-less or Vagina-ful To some I am a walking puzzle, One that never asks to be solved, A white board for others To affix what ever label They see fit Boy, girl, masculine of center, lesbian, Tranny, FTM, bi-gendered, QUEER The cabby probably would have got off on that. That I have a vagina and prefer for the women I sleep with to be womyn That’s really what he wanted to know. My semi-misogynistic father Once asked me, “ What’s Up with butches?” “Why do they want to be dudes?” “Why do they try to outman him?” As if I could answer for every Butch, stud, aggressive, AG, dom, Masculine of center person In the whole damn world. Why can’t a female-bodied Person be more of a man than Someone “gifted” with a Penis and a higher level of testosterone? I have a penis, too.

Paid $60 for it to Sit awkwardly, dysfunctional And sporadically rub a Girl’s clit for her pleasure, Does a strap-on or synthetic Penis make you a man? Does no penis make you a woman? If I open a door for my girlfriend, Stick around for the kids, and pay the billsAm I a man now? My masculinity is a threat To the patriarchy Oh- and some feminists Who want to know why can’t I just be vaginaful and Happy with it? Why can’t I just stick to my sex? My gender is too confusing. They need to know if I should Have power or not. Am I friend or foe? Sister or bro? Well, I’m just a harmless, Genderqueer who Gets the privilege of Being harassed by cabbies, Called the wrong pronoun Daily, Or called “confused” And sometimes, if I’m really lucky I can be fetishized or ostracized

by my own community.

What is Radical? Radical is acceptance, not tolerance. Radical is not some inaccessible knowledge or terminology that is only available to White, upper middle class liberal arts students or hipsters, manarachists and dropouts. Radical is when you tell that transboi razor in hand, poised at wrist That he CAN make it through another day Radical is when you smile warmly at that schizophrenic on the sidewalk that is talking To himself and hasn’t eaten in days but spent twenty years in ridiculous wars fighting for the honor of a country that left him battered, bruised and living in alleyways, Radical is when you set aside your politics and pride and bridge the gap between the right and the left, the conservative and the liberal , queer and LGBT, the black and the white, the Pakistani and Indian, South Asian and East Asian, Puerto Rican and Mexican, Jewish and Palestinian, male, female, and genderqueer, young and old, able and disabled so that we can build a better future in which no one is discriminated against because they are “Other” Radical is stepping outside of yourself, your politics, your circle, your lifestyle to be an ally to the person or group that you least expected. Radical is realizing your privilege whether it’s due to race, class, education or ability and using this privilege to empower the marginalized. Radical is when white allies go to doctors appointments with people of color so that they can get the service and treatment they deserve. Radical is adopting and foster parenting children who are stuck in a system that is not equipped for kindness, compassion, or equity. Radical is not only picketing and speaking out but making the connections you need to make in the community to pass policy, change laws, and create movements that will rock this nation to its core and rip open the social fabric built on racism, xenophobia, homophobia and sexism. Radical is knowing the blood, sweat, and tears that go into the produce and products that you’re eating, the clothes that you’re wearing. Radical is knowing and owning your part in the displacement of communities of color i.e.

gentrification- whether you are white or a person of color. Radical is being intuitive. Looking around your circle and noticing which voices aren’t present and working to get those voices heard. Radical is when you no longer seek bridges…burn bridges…but build bridges because you realize that bridges are all we have. Gloria Anzaldua dijó “Caminante , no hay puentes, se hace puentes al andar” Translation: Traveler, there are no bridges, one builds them as one walks. Traveler there are no bridges, one builds them as one walks. Traveler there are no bridges, one builds them as one walks. Traveler there are no bridges, one builds them as one walks. Are you radical?

Survivin’ Tired of survivin'/strivin'/ bribi'n to see my potential/credentials/my mentals/tired of survivin'/strivin'/to stay alive when/some peeps got this privilege/and all I got's my soul to give/never thought about sex work til the economy tanked and went bisserk/became comfortable in my gender/inhabiting spaces/places/you wouldn't wanna be/havin' brown skin and bein' queer/you can't see me/invisible/and divisible/my community -is...tired of survivin'/strivin'/hard to stay alive when...all you ever hope for is to take another breath/that you don't catch your death/no time to worry about cultural theft/bereft/of heritage/society's no longer sparin' kids/so why me? You buyin' beamers a schemer with an HDTV and all I wanna do is breathe/some fresh air/eat food with no toxicity/complicity/you blame us for/but this capitalism is pimpin' you/yep you’re the whore/and people...are...tired of survivin'/strivin'/to stay alive when you got ends and wealth/but we have to live our lives in stealth and assimilate/to keep food on our plate/fork and knife/we get tired of life/strife/ all these signs/the confines/bein' on the grind/ and you can't see the injustice/ of the majority of brown men bein' in the prison system/ and you pushin' for the expansion of 'isms/ DAMN I'm JUST tired‌tired of survivin/strivin'/to stay alive when all you can think about is amassin wealth and gettin benefits/when the only benefit I get is grime and grit/and my will to uplift/my people/to awaken sheeple and white zombies/but you want to be wearin' abercrombie/and handin' us your truth/ while poisonin' our youth...Man I'ma survive/stay alive/fight with each breath til the day that I die/for justice/and the end to your privilege/and white-given birthright/til the day we all know we're descendants of kings and queens/and our spaces reflect this/til poverty and inequality/we wreck this/check got a powerful enemy...but if you wanna work through this you got a friend in me...cuz we will survive! And with each death we cultivate the will to stay alive/your foot won't be on our neck for long/ we're gonna right all these wrongs/ this isn't rhetorical/or metaphorical/ this sh* is going to end/the patriarchy, xenophobia, homophobia, racism, will's up to us brown folks to pick up the phone ...answer the call Get involved, get this sh* solved..we barely survivin' but without comin' together we can't run...but crawl.


Strong as the Backs the colonizers Hoped to break But only bruised To be healed by Mother’s healing Hands

Mujer Wise as The plantas Full of remedios That guide la gente to Curas y la espiritualidad

Mujer Giving as Our foremothers who Sacrificed safety and security To speak out against injustices Committed against their paisanos, Hermanas, hijas‌gente

Mujer Soft as Las flores that Honor the fallen And enrich the soil That nourishes your People

Mujer Beautiful as La naturaleza Showing your beauty To only those who Dare pay attention And providing to those Who cultivate your Spirit

Mujer Hard as The Truth And the barren Soil, stripped of what it Should be

Awaiting to be nourished And replenished By all that have come to take

Mujer Resilient as El rio That reappears During the rains And carves new paths When it is obstructed

Mujer Powerful as The golden warrior Sun Inspiring nature into Action Your path on the horizon Revered and charted by Civilizations

Mujer Without your womb

This world would be barren Without your breasts This world would be malnourished Without your strength The cosmos would collapse This universe is nothing, Nothing Without YOU.

Compass I tend to go 20-30 minutes in the wrong direction before orienting myself toward the "right way" This is true for all aspects of my life I've developed new perspectives on what others deem a lack of sense of direction a "broken" compass I've adopted terms like "scenic route" and "long cut" for these experiences I've learned to somewhat Enjoy the sensation of unknown surroundings and being "lost" L. O. S. T. Looking-out-for-something... trivial? Is it that I'm disoriented or is it that my heart wishes to take me places other than my

pre-determined Destination Maybe I'm aimlessly wandering with subliminal purpose How else could I develop such a sense of security at these times I recently learned that on Both sides of my family My ancestors were Nomads Abandoning attachments willingly or unwillingly, at times, using their Intuition to guide them to their next Paradiseor possibly just their next few consecutive mealsI am convinced that deep within each heartbeat there is a tambor, a tabla, and a djembe unconsciously guiding my footsteps whispering about unmarked trails and new territories of Being The Ganges, the Nile, the Mississippi, flowing from limb to limb reminding me of the directions that generations upon generations of navigators have utilized

GPS is faulty- hmBut the Knowledge of my Ancestors when lent an active Ear has never failed me. And it never needs to be updated I didn't know any of my Grandmothers My father reassures me that I didn't need toYou see-I've got themHere My soul remembers that which must not cannot be forgotten These ancient memories are my Internal CompassWhy should I panic when my Spirit is a MAP with keys and legends instructing me both of perilous ground and Promised lands.

Untitled/unfinished You've been calling me for some time now, Incessantly whispering to me in my dreams, beckoning me to a stream of Knowledge flowing through my veins that I couldn't dare find in the hundreds of pages of books that I mistakenly thought would solely guide me to the TruthThe wisdom left by my foremothersonly when I sit in silence still as water anticipating cool Mountain breath focused on the tambor caged in my ribs, Yearning to speak an ongoing conversation of centuriesTa tun- Ta tun- against my sternum Petitioning my spirit to Realize a hidden legacy. When I close my eyessurrounded by the wind's cool embrace, eagles seem to cry "Remember"- "remember." And that note strikes a chord in the melody of my soulWho am I?I am That Who am I? I am Them Their song cannot be heard by a stethoscope The incessant drone of the djembe cannot be deciphered on an EKG, So who are you to tell me what medicine I need If I am to be healed I will be healed by the balm of my Grandmother's hand and the wisdom between my foremothers' brow.

Superhero I'm a superhero until the painkillers wear off Valiance fading into Vulnerability 400 mg of ibuprofen and 30 mg of prednisone a cape cloaking this disorder they say has no cure For four hours I do battle with external oppressors but on that fourth hour I fall prey to the internal oppressors

At once I am 90 years old, not able to move without crying out in pain, Superheroes don't cry, they retreat to their batcaveAlone. The white coats are not so good at informing me of my kryptonite, They are more concerned with preserving the S on my chest, Dry cleaning my cape suppressing the internal oppressor But not really worrying

about Why my super cells try to annihilate themselves. Superheroes don't talk about pain, their lips are frozen into a reassuring smile for all to survey. They are made out of the same Steel as the building they climb up and fly over. The townspeople seemingly saved by stoicism, Have no ears to listen. So with painkillers as my trusty steed I am invincible until the next Dose.

Smells like Novocaine in this place Tastes it too Bitter, caustic Unpalatable Nausea-inducing The roots succumbing To the bite of this Bitterness Tongue sprinkled By the uninvited Nevertheless affected Damn. It smells like novocaine In here and I’m not sure Who to tell The hand over my mouth? The hand holding the syringe? Or the numbness Jab us, jab us Words jumbled now Some act disaffected But I need more shots To tingle me My tongue will not Acquiesce to your numbness Even though the pain Pleads You mayn’t dope me. Pass that suction around But I can feel it Masochistic, you sayinstead,Sleep. Numb Now. Don’t I want the pain to Flee?

Forget now. It’s all a dream. My brothers and sisters Are all tinglyWaking up now Some have learned to Live with the pain. How can we treat It If we won’t acknowledge it?

Comets and Cobwebs Under the canopy of Cosmic conundrum there sits-Me blanketed in-We covered in cobwebs of memories Silken, tactile, obstacular ticklings of the past, Bubbling brooks of yesteryear beseeching me with whimsical whispers and beckoning with Aquamarine Arms Tentacles tenaciously entangling threads of me and you "Usness" interwovenneatly nitted- and I, numbed with reminiscence novocained in recollection sit a catacomb of catharsis heart rooting through fingers and toes loaning compassion, consistence and cognizance to the fertile cosmos, Your comet-tailed smile scorching my inner sky Singe-ing my soul Your hiatus a catalyst of heated heartburn Endearing entropy Consumptory coals heaped in hippocampus curtains of stars drawn closed. Final Act. Fade to black-hole

We Exist in between sentences and seconds Words wrongly warp. Punctuation imprisons. Laughable language. Fluctuating. Flawed. Never heeding the heart.

And those morose milliseconds, Moving mainly to make us mourn, our Bliss beyond their belligerence Rejecting the ticking teethmarks of Father Time

We Exist between minutes and moonbeams a Celestial soliloquy Transcending traces of tragedy After hours of outreach

~patience... pausing for pleasure

Is this plausible?

Covalently coexisting Kindred and coalescing as one wonders wandering... off the grid

Awakened Cognizant of a mutual source interlacing all Breathing spirit and Light into the sharers of this Earth

Our light Luminescent, lunar powered Blinding our frustrations and guiding our peace past shipwrecked islands of despair

We Exist between pulses and pendulums Radiant, rhythmic and wrestling the cosmos for a moment to meditate on


Concentrating on inner stars illuminating our beings Loving light-

Phosphoresence Photons fueling future undulating and oscillating on and on...

We Exist between stanzas and line breaks We are works of art our Essence never to be uttered Elusive to the ear Twisting the untrained tongue observers incapable of capturing

This existence... A new, old reality beyond this earth beyond constellations

They are but our intertwined beings exploded confettied and strewn across

the now vibrant void

At the Edge of Existence At the Curb of Consciousness there can be no fallacy

Life's essence is the Truth uttered in the silence when your heart beats next to mine

when my fingers forage for the silkenness of your thighs And my lips linger lovingly then lunge for the nook of your neck

who dares to categorize or hypothesize about the sanctity of our shared existence any syllable is an injustice

Only the thunder in my chest when you kiss me can tell the tale of our existence

only your jagged breath mid-lovemaking freshly falling on my eardrums my tongue against your earlobe as I ground myself , my hands your anchor, diving deeper into your warm cradle of creation

No one can tell of the solar system inside that torches even the darkest most desolate night of the soul

Union Andromeda courting the Milky Way An intergalactic kiss of collision

No blackholes exist here Our love cannot consume nor be consumed it is the thread interweaving the fabric of Life

its energy the building block of Existence

The frequency of our love can change lives heal hearts spark smiles teach and tutor

Regardless of untruths, the Struggle, distance, the world...

this connection exists and heals...

it exists... it exists...

I own these stars They are Me I remember My spirit composes Every ring of Saturn Every moon Of Jupiter

I own this galaxy Turn me inside out And see the milky way, The entire Cosmos.

My Creation was Not without a purpose.

I didn’t spontaneously Appear on the sceneI thought and willed myself into existence.

I own this planet

These constellations This galaxy So why shouldn’t I be able to Have what I need? Accomplish anything I put my mind And heart into? When this place was crafted by Me.

These worlds are collectively Created and ruled by Us.

We are kings and queens Blinded by the duty at hand Misunderstanding our Creation.

Tangled up in stories of Wealth and poverty, Tales of white, black, red, yellow, brown Queer and straight Power and privilege Waste

And waste not, want not Difference and deviance,

But we all made these stars, We are all comprised of These galaxies,

Love the only thread Keeping these components From spinning apart castastrophically Colliding and combusting.

If we made this world, Quark by quark, atom by atom, Molecule by molecule, Cell by cell, stone by stone, Tree by tree, cloud by cloud, , Planet by planet, Galaxy by galaxy,

If we made these problemsWe can create solutions.

I can help with these solutions. You can help with solutions.

We’ve always known the solutions.

Thousand Petalled Lotus Blossom Thousand Petalled Lotus Blossom Growing unceasingly in the Murkiness of society Bloom On Look on unaffected As the world around you- a Quagmire of Injustice and Indecency Attempts to penetrate your Beautiful, Silken petals Though Immersed in a Pond of Conformity Do not forget Your Breathtaking Beauty and Individuality, Delicate and unscorched By the Sun’s Radiance You shall endure even the Conflagration of Ignorance For even if poison be Poured into the Depths of your subsistence You Metamorphose Venom into Vaccine Poison into Prescription Malady into Medicine Pure, Untainted, Tangible Vision

Awaken your Dormant roots before your Exit from this world.

Rise from the Existential mud of Humanity and Realize your Magnificent Nature Look into the pond at the Reflection of the Sun Realize your Brilliance Do not confuse yourself with the Bottom of the Pond Though it be your Foundation Let your blossom soar above the Bedlam that is Attachment and desire You ARE Luminous Omnipotent and Omnipresent Especially Splendorous Courageous and Compassionate Indomitable and Intrepid You Admirable, Unaging, Aquatic Lion/ess, Do not doubt your Self For You have already Won

Stay tuned‌more to come

in the Afro-Genderqueer chronicles!!!

Contact: Websites:


Other Writings: Genderqueer Files: La Qolectiv@ (A play and novel)

A story of Rebellion, Resistance, Reclamation, Revolution, and espĂ­ritu/Spirit. A collective of brown, radical gender/queers find that to continue to protect and heal their community that they must discover their innate super powers tied to their indigenous spirituality and the wisdom of their ancestors. Notes from an Afro-Genderqueer Philosophactivist

A collection of blogs, essays, and articles addressing intersections of race, gender, sexuality, ability, antiracist organizing, organizing within queer people of color/people of color communities, and much, much more. Written by a brown, genderqueer. Notes from an Afro-Genderqueer Philosophactivist 2 Volume 2 of your favorite brown, queer anthology.

Poems read Fundraiser for T.E.N.T.  
Poems read Fundraiser for T.E.N.T.  

radical poems read at the Transgender Eduation Network for Texas' team fundraiser for the Hill Country Ride for AIDS. themes: racial, gender...