Moonlight On The Ocean

The moonlight on the ocean
spills and gives us warmth,
I caught a ray, life-giving
among my thoughts untold
When all is felt and seen
Even our biggest flaws can be redeemed.

Our collateral slavery
is advancing to an end;
Our consciousness impels, and on it
free thought wins and culture ascends;
And oh children, by and by
our skins shall perish and genders fly.

The clouds are bad for scrying
encouraging theological mistruths
But every mistold story
crime and what that relates:
Drives the youth,
we are resurrecting, Earth, we are becoming!

We’re not needing to be pardoned,
our hearts softened and made anew,
I am glad to have fought
to be alive and here with you
I am appreciative too
For moonlight on the ocean.

Unfound You

Oh let me ascend from a love ignited
My perception clears my thoughts and my sight
Altogether glued and restored
Having found roots in your garden of light

You are not mine, not found in me,
Not found, and you do not wish to be
Discovered like some cursed island
Known as gospel in Galilee.

I love you, and I seek you out still
My spirited man so handsome and grey
Yet you are yourself, who wants to be
Unfound as a shadow is lost in the dark.

Lamented Veins

He walked to the fountain atop the hill 

its waters, 

cursed with love,

and he felt his heart wash down the steep

where he’d seen the creature he dreamed of.

In the depths of this wild lake

A danger lay hidden in-store

So he turned again to the top of the hill

And saw the creature he’d seen once before.

And the moon exposed its true form,

It stood bare, beautiful and bold.

Lamented souls ran through its veins,

It’s lips glistened with gory histories foretold.

And he saw it open its arms 

And he ran for them for why should he stay

And let a pain just pass him unhindered

And watch even that creature walk away.

Untitled

He bends to pick a flower.

His knees crack like prison chains.

His back hunched from lack of mercy.

Finger prints weathered from unheard prayer.

He bends to scoop water in a shell.

His lips burn from unquenched thirst.

His throat short of a palm around it.

Eyelids shut as if summoning long forgotten kisses.

He bows with gratitude in his belly.

His head still, wandering, a continent away.

His eyes scorching the sun.

Maybe some day he says to the ocean…

Maybe some day, soon.

This Is What It Feels Like

In bending for courtesy

My giant values take hold

A freedom beaming compassion

However selfish it may become.

In the darkness my lover is everywhere

In the light she warms up my bones.

In Autumn she is heart

In spring, she evolves along with the gods.

To cry for her is soothing

To know…

I get to have her in my life enough

To spill tears over – makes me feel worthy,

Of all that I am and everything I am becoming.

This is what it feels like.

Cold back and a blood boiling over

A Breath struggling from spilling

An insanity threatening this dull world

A crack of pure darkness in the light

An Elio to an Oliver.

A cycle that repeats itself over and over

A gentle, warming and devastating love

At times we played Tekken with our hearts.

Even in embracing another

Her smile offers itself to remind me where home is.

To remind me it’s beautiful to exist apart yet still WANT to love this human… to not even need to choose.

To know she loves me fully

And for her to know I understand.

Fall For I Am

She told me she’s leaving as my old, creaky, heart-door clicked, locked.

I offered her my universe but the thump-thumps in my chest embraced my Milky Way.

Let love be a curse, a thief or a home, but let it reside within me – for me, by me.

I will taste the liar’s fears

Drink from her cup, but I’ll…

Never be robbed of my Atlantean spirit.

I am so much more than a broken heart

Or the nine circles of fictional fire.

But if hell is where the selfish (or happy) go then…

Let me fall,

For

I am.

Love Becoming

For the purpose of this text I will let go of format, grammar and punctuation as much as possible. I will write OLI, oLi, Oli as many times as I desire no matter how creepy or psychotic that may seem. Love never really leaves, especially when it is real. I have walked away from this Oli love and sworn to never look back more times than I have said, “I love you!”. A week ago, I was still in a fleeting relationship, but my growth is congruent with my love.

The becoming, at first was rooted in Oli’s heart and love for me. She keeps taking it away when I start to neglect myself for her – and that’s what true love looks like. Never smooth sailing, never perfect or fully selfless. We play games with one another and dance… forever chasing the Darcy and Elizabeth fantasy, but we’re just two average humans who need to become in order to love.

The only love I have never doubted longer than a black day or a black plague… or the infatuation with a golden haired human which I couldn’t explain… until I could, then… a smile, a video call from Oli and her laughter when she explains who I am to me.

Strangers who exit my space as quickly as they enter it, often try to explain this love becoming. They call Oli my scapegoat, my idea, the lie I tell myself in order to be okay… and that’s partially my fault because I can’t stop talking about her (she hates it)… but that’s what happens when I love you – I just can’t shut up about it.

Tomorrow I will draw better, I will write better, I will be a better colleague and a better bartender. I will be closer to becoming because I love the way I love Oli, and how deeply fond of myself I am becoming.

Liberty

It’s so easy to fall in love with her, every whim becomes an idea worth fighting for.

Every strand of her consciousness beckons to herself

Like an embrace for a daughter so eager to be a son.

She whispers,

“Womanhood is a privilege bestowed only on some.”

Be lioness in a thorn-bush corner,

Be a she-wolf at your lover’s throat under attack.

Make a vow to an impossible dream,

Your lover’s arms…

and becoming, becoming, becoming…

I. G. Didova (B. Levskey)

For My People

Margaret Walker – 1915-1998

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs 
     repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues
     and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an 
     unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an 
     unseen power;

For my people lending their strength to the years, to the 
    gone years and the now years and the maybe years, 
    washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending 
    hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching
    dragging along never gaining never reaping never 
    knowing and never understanding;

For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama
    backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor 
    and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking 
    and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss
    Choomby and company;

For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn 
    to know the reasons why and the answers to and the 
    people who and the places where and the days when, in 
    memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we 
    were black and poor and small and different and nobody 
    cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;

For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to 
    be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and 
    play and drink their wine and religion and success, to 
    marry their playmates and bear children and then die
    of consumption and anemia and lynching;

For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox 
    Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New 
    Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy 
    people filling the cabarets and taverns and other 
    people’s pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and
    land and money and something—something all our own;

For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time 
     being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when 
     burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled 
     and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures 
     who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

For my people blundering and groping and floundering in 
     the dark of churches and schools and clubs and
     societies, associations and councils and committees and 
     conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and 
     devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches, 
     preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by 
     false prophet and holy believer;

For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
    from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding, 
    trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people, 
    all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless
    generations;

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a 
    bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second 
    generation full of courage issue forth; let a people 
    loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of 
    healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing 
    in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs 
    be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now 
    rise and take control.

Play “Boy”

I had to talk myself out of making voodoo dolls from your curls.

This morning as I held the golden thread between my fingers,

I kept trying to figure out a less psychotic reasoning for

wanting to wear you around my neck, or my wrist or…

as a costume.

Not your body of course

I’d never bend you like that.

I would never want to hurt you for my own pleasure

or paint you pretty as though you weren’t already delicate.

And yet

I let you shape me,

Shame me

Throw shade at me.

“What if this is just a phase?”

Your robotic question meddles up my software and

I struggle not to pop-up error reports out loud.

But I am cornered and so afraid of being here

In this space between male and female…

Lingering, awaiting arrest for the crime of being alive.

Am I just a fluke?

I mean, forgetting all the women who treated me like one.

4380 days of trying every possible escape route before accepting that I was born in the wrong skin.

A body that bulges for breasts and curves for childbirth,

But leaves no room for the boy with an insatiable hunger to live.

I can no longer remember a time when

I didn’t need to be sedated to feel peace.

When bathing wasn’t synonymous with panic attacks.

When a glimpse of my own chest didn’t make me feel like a fake.

I promised the new sun to walk up to you and say,

“I just want to soap-scrub myself with my eyes open for a change.

I am tired of trying not to faint when I accidentally bound my chest too tight just to keep it from showing.”

You walked into my morning, overshadowed the sun…

and I, again, had to talk myself out of making voodoo dolls from your curls just to get you to understand.

That it hurt…

It hurt every time you decided that I am only a ‘he’ during play scenes.