Poem: Illuminating the subtle (Or much ado...)

i.
the wicked amongst us rest easy
inhale night like a promise too difficult to keep
they share freely
breathe deeply
sleep soundly

the moon shines like a mistake at
2 am

ii.
we halo seekers think the stars too busy
for daylight
wait for the sun
or noon
time for the living dead
angels
dance circles
around you
we bright like
loving
too soon
a caring so hard you can feel it in your conscience
try acting right
gods always watching
folks the one judging
the fingers dance and linger
the wide eyed see it all
trace time
with anxious glare
forget minutes
tick like sundays
mark time between
guilt trips


iii.
i am a silence louder than
thursday aches to be friday

folks need to be remembered
as extraordinary
despite the nothing they surround themselves with

iv.
it takes effort to stay grounded
when you’re this fly
you can’t fabricate divine
don’t try

Archive: And The Wind Cries Mary

Thanking you all for permission to do both.

I wanted to write something new. Wanted to tell him of all that he’s missed since he was away. I’m desperate to show him Youtube. I want to talk to him about Barack and Michelle. And Malia and Sasha. I want to talk TV. The new reality shows that have popped up after we swore that this “reality show thing wouldn’t catch on.” What about music? What about movies? What about the people who feel like they know you? The people you would have loved? What about how this world needs you so much still… more than ever. More than ever. More than ever.

What about everything? What about everything, Peter… what about the fact that you’re not here and 3 years later it’s still not fair. What about that?

What about about E? This boy that holds his name in his heart. This boy he predicted. This boy who catches a silent song like he did and dances and dances and dances…

What about that? So I wanted to write that letter. That poem. That essay. But I don’t want to share it. So I wrote it and it’s mine and it’s E’s and it’s Peter’s.
Thank you so much for loving him through all of us that loved him. Thank you, everyone (and you know who you are…) for allowing me the space to obsess about El DeBarge and to talk about him and laugh and cry and smile and show you how amazing he was. Thank you for understanding.

A lot of us have asked me what he was like. He was amazing but the day he left, I wrote a letter to him. I’m reposting that because it says it all.

Happy Birthday, Peter James Conti.
We miss you.
We love you.
Still need you.

In love,
B.

Dear Peter,
My enchanted beloved. What are you doing?
I get these emails and texts and phone calls telling me that you died at 1:00AM this morning. That’s not possible. That’s not part of the plan. You were supposed to get better and I was supposed to come back to New York and we were supposed to be back and P&B. Those were the plans. I don’t seem to recall anybody dying. But Peter, you don’t die. You’re made of candy and fairy lights and empty bottles of Corona. You were my first and only gay boyfriend. You were my poet. You were my dancer. You were sarcastic and kind and giving and beautiful. You were the very definition of awesome. You made breathing better because you were doing it too. And laughing the whole time. You wear your heart on your sleeve and then decorated so it could be seen from outer space.

Baby, you loved everything and everyone so hard I thought it was going to crush you sometimes but you always sprung back. I’m going to miss you dancing. Everywhere. Anywhere. In the middle of the street, in a crowded bar, on the second floor of the H&M on Braodway, in my living room while humming the bassline of a song you just wrote on the spot. You made everything so much more fun. And I remember the days when I was wracked with depression, you would lie next to me humming, the theme to Lady Sings The Blues because “Every good mental breakdown needs a soundtrack.” You were so lovely. You are so lovely. And I don’t know what we’re supposed to do without you. You’re not supposed to die. You were supposed to triumph and write about it. Remember you were going to play yourself and win the Oscar and the Tony and the Emmy for the first life story broadcasted in every medium. We talked about it. Last time I saw you. This isn’t fair. Peter James Conti does not die. He flies. He soars. He pulsates and glows like the alien life form that he is. The plan was to keep you around forever.

Remember the last time we hung out, it was right before I left for tour and I was sad because I was over my relationship and you were sad because you “been over yours”. So we dumped them both for the night and just hung out with each other. Turned our cell phones off and turned to each other and pizza for comfort. It was your idea to mix Grey Goose and grape juice, “Because it rhymed.” And we were committed to drinking it as nasty as it was, because we had to suffer for our art. Right before you passed out on my couch you said, “We’re so good at this… we should go to bartending school but only make drinks that rhyme.” I threw a blanket over you and nodded. The next morning you rose with a thick tongue and fuzzy head and said, “That was our worst idea ever.” I wrote about it in my journal and I was reading it the other day looking for material for my book. And I thought to myself, I wonder how Peter’s doing and I meant to call someone because everyone had lost track of you when you got sick. And I got distracted. I’m sorry, Peter.
Cancer is for old people. It’s not for my trickster. Not for Elegba. Not for the man who chants in Yoruba just to prevent an argument from escalating.
My Peter, my beautiful, beautiful trickster. My Oshun warrior. My winter solstice celebrating, dancing topless with the moon weirdo. What am I supposed to do without you? Without your Lauryn Hill’s songs replete with interpretative dance? You made everything you touched beautiful. I didn’t know what to do with you sometimes. All I could do was love you fiercely and protect you from the things that threatened to cloud you. Stop you from smiling. Like the week you tried to convince everyone you were straight.
You only wanted us to notice and we did and wanted you back.
You were amazing. Your work left me breathless you knew what to see and made sure you could recreate it perfectly. My first website was all you. Every cartoon, every font. All you. You directed my first photoshoot. I was nervous and afraid and you held my hand through the whole thing. You saw the world in possibilities and pretty colors. I tried to see it through your eyes.
My beautiful Peter, what’s the world to do without you?
So here it is. It’s been hours since I find out. And the calls keep coming. I wanted to see you before I left New York but you didn’t want anyone to see you like you were. I wish I hadn’t listened. I wish I would have come anyway but I thought I understood where you were coming from. I don’t understand. I have too much to say to you. Too much to show you. So many songs to sing. I want to dance with you. I will never shush your chanting. I promise. Grey goose and grape juice. Union Square Park. Shopping in SoHo. Zen Palate. Laying on the couch watching American Idol. Him. You. Threatening my boyfriends with spiritual harm. I wouldn’t be here without you. You pushed me to make the phone calls. You encouraged me to go on tour when I was scared. You were my audience. You were my cheering section. My harshest critic. My lovely lovely boy. You were my heart. I just need some more you, some more time.
I can’t say good bye.

I love you too much,
Bass.

Archive: Historical ReEnactments

Historical Re-enactments
(Relations with a stranger is a one night stand. Relations with someone you’ve already been with is a historical re-enactment)


asked you to stay the night
too late to drive so far
I said
had your safety in mind
surprised when you said yes
the way you did
mumbling something about winter
in the city and snow
I shrugged
too tired to discuss
offered you the couch
hoping you’d take the bed
surprised when you did
now I lie in arms that smell familiar
fingers laced with mine
can count your breath on my eyelids

vaguely recall caress and kiss
hands on hips
moving counter clock
lost all track of time
feel body half on mine

I high on dreams
didn’t know you were real
until your scent found my pillow
rolled over saw your face
just to the right of my everything

fingertips brush lips
dance across cheeks
don’t remember your breath so steady
don’t remember your skin so soft
don’t remember loving you this much
you, so beautiful and calm in sleep
I, restless want to steal your peace
make it mine
like you should be

vaguely recall caress and kiss
hands on hips
you on lips
now feel arm around waist
pull me close
knees find thighs
nose find place where shoulder meets neck
feel my breath on your eyelids
find my scent
watch my name escape as whisper
exist as dance
across cheeks
brush lips
breath so steady
skin so soft
don’t remember loving you this much

can barely breathe now
from holding air
can’t move
can’t let
you
high on dreams
me lost in memory
remembering
when you and I
were we
were us
were meant to be
breath so steady
skin so soft
remembering when you loved me
this much

Archive: She Is (poem)

she is

Editing poems for the book. Which means re-editing old poems.

tangled mass
uncertain
weaves false confidence
bravado
she takes little chances
lives life grateful
afraid
wishes for small miracles
expects no answers
faith has always been a matter of interpretation
she only believes in god accidentally
disbelief would take too much proof
and she doesn’t have the time
she tells herself this often
the truth is she’s forgotten how to pray
can only hurl empty into darkened rooms
she is afraid of being that girl again
knees to chest
unable to rest
head bent in anything but submission
she’s known as the girl who never sleeps
remains stretched within the hours
waiting for the sun to rise
this happens too often
stopping is not an option
she worries about what she can not change
becomes lost in the crumble and tumble
of questions
the answers buried beneath rubble and curse
she has uncovered a new hatred of flying
writing
love
they are no longer fast enough
she lives on the corner of go and gone
never stays long enough to build memories
it’s easier to stay whole that way
she is the love of a weekend
and monday’s early morning regret
she is 110 lbs
and still worries when she slides on her jeans
so this girl doesn’t eat
she ignores the roar and whistle of her stomach
believes that if you stop eating long enough
the hunger disappears
so she is a tablespoon of peanut butter
a quartered apple
water
ice
she secretly wants to be one of those princess girls
hold rainbows and dewdrops
light on sugar tongue
but she is dirt
sweat
gymsocks
scars on legs
hands
arms
heart
she makes excuses
apologizes often
is never really sorry
she is always accused of being sunshine
while, quietly wishes winter on the world
she likes to be alone
she should never be alone