there is not enough season
in spooky season
i’d like it to extend
from september 1st
till thanksgiving
(i mean, we could go until new years)
(or even all year ‘round)
(that’s the real gay agenda:
spooky season all year ‘round)
there is not enough season
in spooky season
i’d like it to extend
from september 1st
till thanksgiving
(i mean, we could go until new years)
(or even all year ‘round)
(that’s the real gay agenda:
spooky season all year ‘round)
if you are
barely over
five feet tall
and your short-legged stride
outpaces
all the New Yorkers around you
you may have a problem
however
if you are
barely over
five feet tall
and gay
and your short-legged stride
outpaces
all the New Yorkers around you
that’s just fine.
i’ve been involved
in many a Pride:
marching in the parade,
spectating,
only coming for the afterparty,
staying late,
leaving early,
volunteering,
forgoing because of work,
forgoing because of travel,
forgoing because of emotions,
huge Prides,
tiny Prides,
side Prides,
marching,
listening,
shouting,
chanting…
i’ve been lucky
to learn
beforehand
what i needed to know
to appreciate
each message,
each Pride.
i was introduced
through friends,
chosen family,
strangers,
the internet,
leaders,
who really was Marsha P. Johnson,
and i listened to Sylvia Rivera call us all out,
i learned of the sit-ins,
and the die-ins,
Act-Up,
papier mâché,
the quilt,
what Leather Daddies
and Dykes on Bikes
gave to the communities,
Stormé DeLarverie,
and so many more
i’m still learning about,
and even more
still unnamed
still faceless
who gave me the right
to fight for others’ rights
today
and i hope we continue to march,
that instead of forgoing Pride for comfort
we forgo Pride for Queer Liberation,
or at least include Queer Liberation
inside our Pride.
that we continue to march
for Black lives,
for Trans lives
for Black Trans lives
for a free Palestine
for disability rights
for a Pride
that supports us all;
sans cops
sans rainbow capitalism
supporting what Pride originally stood for
(not because i want to go back,
but because we really cannot go forward
until we are all truly free.)
just remember, folx,
in this epoch of rainbow capitalism
that wearing your Pride is encouraging,
exciting,
exceptional,
try (if you can) to buy queer-made
so that our money funds our community,
and so that the big businesses know
they can’t obfuscate our memories
with shiny color spectrums;
we remember when they funded hate speech against us,
(and we know they have never formally apologized,
just realized they could take our money as well as our humanity
at the same damn time),
and we know the true meaning of Pride
is against the man
against the machine
against the culture of conformity.
our ancestors fought hard fights
for us to live out loud today.
let us honor their memories
by fucking with the system
that holds anyone down.
when one is used to long long car trips
four hours feels like nothing.
and when hours and hours and hours of driving
usually requires an audio distraction,
shorter distances can be all conversation
(and you can fall in love all over again,
even without first falling out)
our walking tour of the historic sites of stonewall and gay Greenwich Village
was postponed, likely to be canceled, without notice
for a Lady Gaga concert scheduled to begin
in seven and a half hours
and if that isn’t the perfect metaphor
for the commercialization and lost history
of Pride
i don’t know what is.
(the end of a trip)
things we will miss:
-walking everywhere
-IncaKola
-how quickly coffee is made
things we are excited about:
-our own bed
-seeing (and cuddling) our animals
-a warm house
-being able to fill our entire lungs
-long hot showers
-bagels
-feeling safe enough to be gay together in public.
when coming to Machu Picchu
many people call it a
‘bucket list trip’
to be there
to hike the entire Inca trail
it has also been called
‘a professional photographer’s dream’
and
‘spiritual’
but what happens when the busses
splattering mud
spewing diesel
cart tourists up and down that winding mountain road
all day long?
are we really experiencing something fantastic
before we die?
recording in image the beauty of long ago?
connecting spiritually to the past?
or are we simply a cog in a (money-making) machine?
how much of our respective ‘esposos’ can we talk about
and laugh
before the commonalities become apparent
and our wedding rings begin to look too similar?
(on homosexuality being illegal
but not necessarily punishable)