Queer Calling

They used to call us the shamans, the two-spirited. Entire nations were built on our foresight, our unique non-binary experience, our prophesy.

Now we are shunned for our wisdom. We are told that we must fit into a system bent on more things, on killing nature, and fighting more wars. We are feared for our verdant phrases, our exotic movements, the strange strength of ours which comes from an uncommon source. We have become our own tribe, separated to the detriment of our former fellow-men. Have they forgot their prophets? Or can they only face our terrifying brilliance in short bursts? Are we relegated to the edges to keep the herd moving towards a greener pastureland with our shouts of truth, harsh and pointed?

Pride Week Weep

So I’m terrified that I will not contribute to society through my poetry or academics, I’m scared that I am and will be totally useless. That nobody will notice me or work on things with me, that whatever latent talent I have will not be discovered or put to use. Because I’m a burnt-out student and I hate being a student but it’s all I’ve ever done. It is my claim to fame, the justification of my life as a leech on society, my excess which I feel every time I realize we are being kept comfortable here with blood-oil borne out of the conflicts of elsewheres. I hate this system that I am the creme-de-la-creme of. Fuck it. I want out. I don’t want to do well in it, but that seems to be the impetus everyone else is operating under. So, what do I do from here? I want to be a punk artist or something like that. I hate my life and everything I have worked for so hard so far. Fuck this shit.

I need a new lifestyle.

Christianity is wrong about some things. My faith is deeply, deeply shaken, most of it has slipped away and I am left here questioning most everything. I have no more comfort in a faith. I have a faith in people. But that is a whole lifestyle change. That is a whole lifestyle change. I am no longer who I thought I would be for eternity. I am no longer the golden boy, the one soaring above life’s problems. There is no longer any motivation in that imagery for me now. I have fallen and I like the feeling of the ground. I like rolling in the pine needles and loam, I am grateful to sprawl here unnoticed and unashamed. “I am your gay worst nightmare,” I want to say.

“I am so grateful that you’re still seeking God,” he said, one man who is praying for me now. That makes me angry now. I am seeking some semblance of my former self, I am trying to fit the pieces back together. You didn’t know me then and you don’t know me now.

God seems to be dead. But maybe it is just our naivety that is passing, burning away in its Icarusian passion.

I actually really want to be a man-whore and sleep around and drink and smoke and dance dirty. I want these things on deep and soaringly spiritual levels. I’m going to do these things I’m sure. And You and your parents aren’t going to save me from them. What does that mean about who I am? I am not your golden boy after all. I do not have that worth any more. What worth do I have, then? What other accomplishments can I point to here? There isn’t much I guess. I don’t have many events to plug at C&G meetings. I am only this transforming force. Where is my discipline and form? I am dancing with my boundaries all day, I am totally stretched out and I am not a master of it and won’t be for a very long time. Crazy. Time to sleep—

Morning. Collis café.
I am in mourning of my former self. Good mourning America. Roll in your ashes. Deal with your shit. Feel that sadness, stop running from it. Cruise your soon-to-be-lover and fuck him. Fuck him hard.

Here, in this eating area are the queers and my Christian brothers.

I feel shame. What do I share with these people now? I have to remember that I am in good company. Good company, people who question their faith. It helps to type and not look right at the crazy words I am writing.

I have moved on. I am looking at a time of new friendships, fast lovers, new relationships, new rhythms. Maturity, really. I am mourning my golden boy boyhood. My Christian fantasy. I am in mourning. I should paint my nails black, this part of me has died, my body mind and soul are new. And they are just coming into the light, just drying their wings really, so I’m just sitting here feeling the warmth, knowing that the inevitable will happen and one day I will fly and procreate. But not now. I’m just drying out.

Santogold, L.E.S. Artistes

here is my desire to become a renegade artist of some sort:
(don't know if I'll go through with it)



art. honesty. would we need violence if we had artistic outlets instead? we should embrace the determined (destructive?) artist in us, and build a more enjoyable world. men can create aesthetics, art pieces, music, doing away with what we do not need as well as they can hold guns and destroy things. we can construct inequitable class constructions and exploit others for resources as well as imitate their art, their spirit, incorporating their beauty into our lives by artistic co-option.


Santogold's lyrics for the song "Creator":
Got no need for the fancy things
All the attention that it brings
Tell me no, I say yes, I was chosen
And I will deliver the explosion

Can't say it's gonna get me far
Do no good to say what you are
I run the streets and I break up houses
River runs deep and the flame devours it

Me, I'm a Creator
Thrill is to make it up
The rules I break got me a place
Up on the radar
Me, I'm a Taker
Know what the stakes are
Can't roll it back, it's understood
Got to play our cards

Sit tight I know what you are
mad bright but you aint no star
polish up til you make it gleam
your M.O, I know what you mean
Tail ridin' and I know it's true
while they screamin' I love you
Down deep you know there aint no flow
a soul decay, was D.O.A

I know what you here for now
Words out you're an idea whore though,
now don't you crush on me
I'll see you in your pipe dreams
whether or not you know it's true
You're who they dictate to
That shit must hurt real bad
fakin' what you wish you had


Here all the folks come ask about me
Band wagon, know they used to doubt me
Blind side tend to hit real hard
you should heed the warning, get a body guard
Steady friction in this bitch
Creepin' in just like an itch
so far I got the last laugh
still the rich rise up, still I live fast
wouldn't know it face to face
Got no soul and got no taste
Moving in speed up the pace
I got it locked though, what a waste
All the talk is standard fare
Walk the walk if it gets you there
on the grind til the gig is up
Im 'a smash 'em down
put a muzzle on them like "what!"



Lyrics for Santogold's "Go Ahead"
Go Ahead, you know you want it
You'll have no other way
you just want to take us down
go ahead,
I'll be the one hit
If I can take you, boy, it just might throw this town
Oh, you want to get it
You make us bleed, it'll prove there's life somewhere
And oh, no, I want to yell it
but do we speak or are we just nodding our heads
No way, not me, what you got,
it's not for me, but you'll find a way
no way not me, what you got,
it's not for me

Don't reach too far
You will fall over
Don't be surprised what you discover
Don't fear your call
Can't pull us under
You better watch out, run for cover

We see right through it
You get what you give, you get what you give

Go ahead
I'll be your junkie
I'll be deplete you can heap all rubbish here
Go ahead, now dump it on me
if I go quiet will the itch go down with me
Oh, you got to get it
nevermind that it was never there nowhere
but oh, no, not for a minute
for now you'll make your bed
and it will wait, I swear

No way, not me, what you got,
it's not for me, but you'll find a way
no way not me, what you got,
it's not for me

Don't reach too far
You will fall over
Don't be surprised what you discover
Don't fear your call
Can't pull us under
You better watch out, run for cover

We see right through it
You get what you give, you get what you give

Tell them that they'll get what they wanted, tell them
Tell them that they'll get what they wanted.
'Til then....