Echoes: Verse 12, Carlos Segura

Assoto Saint's anthology The Road Before Us is a must read. It is full of wonderful pieces that are like snapshots into the gay man's psyche. Love, hate, hopes, and death all framed in a finger-snap. I wanted to continue the relaunch campaign of this blog with a piece by Carlos Segura that really resonated with me. The only line change I would make is about white men. None have submitted applications for long term residency in the past, despite me being open to the possibility. (Just saying.)

I have just been thinking a lot about what I want in a partner and Carlos' words come pretty damn close. 

Classifieds
by Carlos Segura

wanted
a man
to hold me
during thunderstorms
so i won't shiver anymore
fuck
through blizzards
so i could keep warm

white men need not apply

knowledge of snap-finger theories
girlfriend language
or cha-cha queenologies
need not apply

philosophies of
bebopism
dick holdism
or home boy talkism
not required

occupation a must
kissing a must

he needs to know
and be comfortable
with him

wanted
a man
who will sit between my legs
describe his dreams
lay besides me
tell me he's afraid
cry

it'd be fun if he were ticklish

one
who will come home
to our apartment
throw his bag
his coat
across the room
and me
on our overstuffed sofa

forget about
nine to five
white people
black people
miss things
got mugged
raped
evicted
fired
bashed
pop finger
bullshit
every day
and kiss me down

one who will want
me
love
me

applications being considered

Carlos Segura was born in the Dominican Republic and raised in New York City. His work has appeared in The Pyramid Periodical. At the time this poem was published, Carlos worked as a health educator for the Minority Task Force on AIDS in New York City.

Pen and Paper: Untitled

It has been some time since last I wrote anything on this blog.  Life got busy, but is starting to settle back down, so time to whip out my pen and paper.  I thought I would get things back on track with a short unfinished piece of mine that I recently found in the pages of an old black book.  Enjoy.

 Untitled

I have not traversed these grounds
             in a long time
For it was here
       amongst the back-trails and enclaves
That he knelled and
             opened his mouth to betrayal
Allowing its seeds
       to settle on the earth
   and take root

Silent Deaths and Resounding Resurrections

I was recently reflecting on a speech by Audre Lorde  entitled "The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action.  In it Lorde states:

I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself.  My silences had not protected me.  Your silence will not protect you.  But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences.  And it was the concern and caring of all those women which gave me strength and enabled me to scrutinize the essentials of my living.

What are the words you do not yet have?  What do you need to say?  What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence?  Perhaps for some of you here today, I am the face of one of your fears.  Because I am woman, because I am Black, because I am lesbian, because I am myself - a Black woman warrior poet doing my work - come to ask you, are you doing yours?

A bold and beautiful woman who I am sorry I never met.  Like many, I started the new year in heavy reflection on my life.  The choices I have made and those I have avoided.  The last two years I have been running through the motions in some respects and I can't help but cringe at Lorde's final question  "are you doing yours?" because I am afraid my answer may be no.  The great thing about life though is that we may not be promised tomorrow but we have today, right now, to stop living lives of silence and to make a little noise. 

Mountain Climbing and Other Views on Romance

A writer friend and I got into an interesting discussion recently regarding a fiction blog series of his entitled Jaylen's Journal.  I read the piece and was really intrigued by some of the ideas about it and that lead to a VERY long comment that I decided to turn into a blog post of its own.   I recommend you read the blogpos first and then my comments make a litle more sense.  You can find the post at: Doin Just Fine: Jaylen;s Journal, Entry 1

-----------------------------------------------------------

You always manage to construct phrases that stay with me. Your final line that it's easy to sleep with a broken heart when that is all you know (paraphrasing please forgive me) was poignant and sobering. So much so, that I am going to deviate from my usual pattern. Instead of analyzing the technical aspects of the piece, I will follow in the footsteps of your subject and respond from a place that has little use for quantification, reason, or order. I will give voice to the intangible.

To love is not a very difficult task. What is very hard is the recognition of that emotion; the simultaneous act of taking ownership of it while giving it away to someone else to hold, nurture, protect, and harvest. I think the difficulty emerges from the fact that although we give it away in the hope of receiving those blessings, love can be dropped, stunted, violated, and left fallow. So we are left yearning but fearful.

We climb the heights of passion sometimes slowly other times quick to stand at the precipice that overlooks paradise but we are afraid to enter it because it requires us to set foot off of the mountain we have spent so much time climbing and to free fall with only an all consuming hope that some how we will float or lean to fly and make a new home in heaven. That is the dream of love that sustains me at least.

But as you know. I don't sleep much and therefore have precious little time to dream.

And I don't like climbing mountains or heights and alot if other shit that I used to paint my poetic picture.

When you climb you get dirty. You bleed. And by the end of it all you tend to end up looking a hot mess. Not to mention that in my metaphor the only options you have I'd you manage to get to the top are to stay at the top of the mountain probably with some sense of accomplishment, but alone and probably hungry. Or you jump, and learn the same lesson as icarus that you pobably should have kept your feet on the ground, fuck what you heard.

So keep climbing.

(shrug)

What the hell else do you have to do today?

Red Ink, Chapter 3

I stood shivering in the rain outside the hospital.  My throat was raw from the sobs that had racked my body for that last hour.  I was spent and alone in the dark, but I could not go back to that room. 

“God,” I whispered through chattering teeth. 

“Why?”  I asked. “Why?”

I looked up to the heavens, but the only answer I got in return was a rumble of distant thunder and the pitter-patter of rain on my face. 

“Fuck!!!  FUCK YOU!!!!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.  It was clear my questions and threats were going to go equally unanswered.

I had to escape.  It did not matter where I wound up I just had to get as far away from this place as possible.  I chose a direction at random and began walking.  By this point my clothes were completely soaked, but I did not care.  I did not care about my clothes, the rain, or anything.  I just needed to keep moving, to do something other than sit and wait.

“Is this Mr. Dupri?” 

Cars zoomed by me as I wondered along the side of the road lost in the haze my thoughts.  My path zig zagged on and off the sidewalk as I replayed the night in my head.

“Mr. Dupri, sir.  There has been an accident…”

The sound of a blaring car horn startled me back into reality.  I hesitated for a breathe as the car barreled towards me, but jumped back onto the sidewalk expelling the air from my lungs.  This was no good.  I could feel the helplessness of earlier creeping back to the surface threatening to unsettle my momentary composure. 

I looked on either side of the street and spotted a bar with its lights still on.  I darted across the street, this time paying careful attention to the oncoming traffic.  There was light music seeping out of the bar onto the street outside. 

There wasn’t a bouncer so I just walked in and grabbed a seat at the bar and looked around.  It was nearly empty except for a couple sitting at a table in the corner and a few old timers sitting at the end of the bar talking to the bartender.  It was exactly what I needed.

“Well you look like shit,” one of the old guys barked with a grin.  “Didn’t your mama teach you to come in out of the rain.  You are as wet as a dog.”

I looked down at my soaked clothes, “I guess your right.”

“Lay off the boy Mike,” the bartender said as he walked over to me.

“What ya havin’?” he asked.

“Jack.  Straight up,” I replied.

I watched as he poured the drink and handed it to me. 

The lobby smelled like Lysol and I could feel my hands sweating. 

“So, what you doin’ at a bar in the middle of the week looking like you feel in a pool wit ya clothes on?”

“If you don’t mind, I didn’t really come here for conversation.” I spat back.

“Have it yo way.  You just looked like you needed to talk a bit,”  he said.

You can go in, but you should prepare yourself

I downed the whiskey and let its warmth thaw the chill in my chest before responding. 

“What is the use of talking it won’t change shit,” I said.  “All I want to do right now is have you refill my glass.  That would be a big help.  And this time make it a double.”

I offered him a crooked grin that didn’t reach my eyes along with my now empty glass.  He gave me a look, not buying my bullshit grin for a minute, and refilled my glass.  I picked it up I knocked it back without a wince.

“One more please.  You can put this one on ice,” I said smooth as silk. 

The bartender simply poured and headed back to the old timers.  I wrapped my hands around the glass and stared at the amber liquid. 

I stood in front of the door trying to will myself to take one more step.

I took a sip from my glass.  I could feel the effect of my previous two shoots starting to take effect and sighed as I could feel my mind drifting off.  Hiding from that room even in my thoughts. 

***

I don’t remember how long I staid at the bar, but I do know I was good and drunk when I left.  The bartender wanted to call me a cab, but I refused and stumbled my way back down the street.  The walk seemed even longer on the return trip and by the time I got back to the hospital my legs were about to give out. 

It took all of my remaining focus to retrace my earlier steps back through the winding corridors of the hospital.  Left.  Right.  Left. Right.  Until, I found myself standing back outside the door just as lost as before.  My hand trembled as I reached for the door handle, but I willed it still.  I opened the door, took a breathe, and walked in. 

-----------------


I promise to reveal who is in the bed at the hospital in the next chapter.  Lol, I know I have been dragging it out a bit, but I was trying to decide between a few things that I hope will make the wait worth it.

Echoes: Verse 9, David Frechette

Safe Harbour by David Frechette

Though Destiny did not decree
That we become lovers
It's in your arms I find
Safe harbour from
A tidal wave of woes
Threatening to engulf me.

Your smiling eyes are my lighthouse,
Your lips seal out chaos.
The smoothness and warmth of your body
Keep the coarse chill of
The everday world at bay.
And I'm not afraid to christen you
My temporary shelter from the storm.


Frechette, David. "Safe Harbour." Brother to Brother: New Writing By Black Gay Men. Ed. Essex Hemphill. Conceived b Joseph Beam. Washington: RedBone Press, 2003. (80).

Echoes: Verse 7, Elvira A. Gasser

I have been wondering if I will have reason to say this anytime soon....

Don't Worry My Love....

by Elvira A. Gasser 

My love, our time is coming near
I can't wait until we are together
Sometimes you may feel lonely, but I am here
And I will be your best friend forever
Until the end of time my dear
Until the end of time, I will be here
To hold you in my arms
And kiss your soul
And we can walk holding eachothers hands
I wish you were here right now, my hands are cold
You're my best friend and the lover of my soul
Don't worry my love, the time is almost here
Soon we'll be one flesh, and together we'll grow old
I get desperate sometimes, I know
Because I miss you, my sexy soldier
And my love for you I can't wait to show
Do not worry my soulmate, that we will be together forever.

Red Ink, Chapter 1

The lights were dim as I crept into the bedroom, the sound of my feet muffled by the steady beat of the rain outside my window. Despite the downpour outside, I was determined that everything be just right. It had been three months since I last saw Terrell and everything had to be perfect for our reunion. I wanted to call the airline one more time to check and see if his flight was still on time despite the heavy rain and thunder, but I had already called twice and knew I was just anxious. Instead, I turned on a little Erykah Badu, closed my eyes, and tried to relax.

Just as I started to calm my nerves, my cell phone began to ring. Unconsciously, I quickly glanced down to see who was calling. I did not recognize the number, so I immediately pressed ignore. Didn’t they know I was waiting for Terrell to call and let me know he was in a cab and on his way home? I didn’t have time to waste talking to some random ass caller.

I gave up on trying to shake my anticipation and nervously looked around the room, checking everything once more. As I turned around our apartment, my gaze fell on an old picture of us sitting on the dresser.

Terrel was wearing a snug pair of dark blue jeans, a fitted white tee that accented his tight frame, and a trim chocolate sports coat that complimented his caramel complexion. Everything about him dripped of urban sophistication and you couldn’t help but get caught up in his brownie-tinged eyes and ever present smile. Even two years later, a photo was enough to get my blood pumping. With all of that Hershey’s goodness to gaze at, it was easy to overlook the guy standing next to him.

I picked up the frame to get a closer look. My hair was a lot shorter in those days. Just a small neatly trimmed afro; nothing compared to my now shoulder length locks. Clean-shaven except for a well-groomed patch of hair nestled on my chin. Skin the color of roasted almonds, I was all business in my navy blue dress shirt, black slacks, and tie.

My phone began ringing again. I reminded myself that Terrell’s special ring tone was Chrisette Michele’s “Love is You” and quickly preceded to ignore the phone, loosing myself in the picture.

I started to smile to myself as I remembered the day we took the photo. It was the beginning of my junior year of college and I was at a New Student Orientation event, tabling for the Black Student Association. I hated doing these events and would have much rather been at home curled up in a chair with a book and Lauryn Hill playing in the background. I had already been sitting there for two hours, when in walked Terrell.

“Helloooo everyone. My name is Terrell Davis a.k.a. Mr. Personality a.k.a. The Truth. Nice to meet all of y’all,” he declared with a slightly southern drawl.

Conversation stopped as everyone turned to take in our new arrival. To say he woke me up would be an understatement.

I could hear as everyone, myself included, shook their heads and mouthed “This Negro.”

Terrell was not to be deterred though; he confidently walked into the room and proceeded to parade around introducing himself to everyone. I watched as he walked up to each table tossing his brilliant smile and hugs around like M&M’s, allowing them to slowly melt and spread their sweet taste all over the room. I sighed to myself.

I could not stand him.

I can not help but laugh as I recalled that little fact. It’s funny to think about it now, but when I first encountered Terrell he urked my nerves. I generally did not have a problem with people with an abundance of confidence. I was a Black man at an elite university, I was used to encountering people with an over abundance of self-esteem, but I felt Terrell was just being extra and making the rest of us more mild mannered Negroes look bad. I was tired of playing the role of the welcoming upperclassmen and decided to call it quits before I had to deal with another outburst of Mr. Personality.

As I began to pack up my flyers, I was interrupted by a voice.

“Hi. My name is Terrell,” he said with his hand extended.

“Hi,” I replied while silently thanking the powers that be that he didn’t attempt to put me in one of those hugs he was tossing around earlier. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, in case you didn’t notice my mocha complexion, I am a Black student and you seem to be from the Black Student Alliance. I want to know how I can sign-up.”

“Sure, here is our e-mail sign-up sheet,” I responded and pulled out the paperwork I had been putting away. “Let me grab you a pen.”

I was reaching for a pen in my bag when a girl with a camera interrupted us and asked, “Can I take a picture of you two for the paper? We are running a story on diversity programming during New Student Orientation and I need to take a picture of all the ethnic clubs.”

Before I could object Terrell shouted, “Of course, girl.”

He slipped around to my side of the table and put his arm around my waste.  I tried to subtly slip from his grasp, but he had a firm hold on me and I did not want to make a scene.

“How is this?” he asked.

Ring. Ring.

“Shit!” I said to the empty room, my daydream ruined. “Damn phone.”

I set the picture frame back on the dresser and reached for my phone more than a little irritated that my moment of nostalgia was being interrupted.

“Hello. This better be important,” I growled.

“Is this Mr. Dupri?”

“Yes. Who is this?” This had the makings of a telemarketing call and I had no time for that shit tonight. My beau was on his way home.

“Mr. Dupri. Sir, there has been an accident. We are going to need you to come to the hospital.”

My heart froze and the phone tumbled from my hands.

“Mr. Dupri? Mr. Dupri, are you still there sir?”