Staceyann Chin is my new Andrea Gibson

Her words:
Am I a feminist or a womanist? The student needs to know if I do men occasionally and primarily, am I a lesbian? Tongue tied up in my cheek, I attempt to respond with some honesty. Well, this business of Dykes and Dykery, I tell her, it’s often messy.  With social tensions as they are, you never quite know what you’re getting.

Girls who are only straight at night, hardcore butches be sporting dresses between 9 & 6 every day.  Sometimes she is a he, trapped by the limitations of our imaginations. Primarily, I tell her, I am concerned about young women who are raped on college campuses, in bars, after poetry readings like this one, in bars. Bruised lip and broken heart, you will forgive her if she does not come forward with the truth immediately, for when she does, it is she who will stand trial as damaged goods. Everyone will say she asked for it, dressed as she was, she must have wanted it. The words will knock about in her head: ” Harlot, slut, tease, loose woman” – some people can not handle a woman on the loose. You know those women in pinstriped shirts and silk ties, You know those women in blood-red stiletto heels and short skirts. These women make New York City the most interesting place. And while we’re on the subject of diversity, Asia is not one big race, and there’s not one big country called ‘The Islands’, and no, I am not from there.

There are a hundred ways to slip between the cracks of our not so credible cultural assumptions about race and religion. Most people are suprised that my father is Chinese. Like there’s some kind of preconditioned look for the half-Chinese, lesbian poet who used to be Catholic, but now believes in dreams.
Let’s get real sister-boy in the double-x hooded sweatshirt. That blonde-haired, blue-eyed Jesus in the Vatican ain’t right. That motherfucker was Jewish, not white. Christ was a middle-eastern rasta man who ate grapes in the company of prostitutes and he drank wine more than he drank water. Born of the spirit, the disciples loved him in the flesh.

But the discourse is not on those of us who identify as gay or lesbian or even straight. The state needs us to be either a clear left or right. Those in the middle get caught in the cross – fire away at the other side. If you are not for us, then you must be against us. If you are not for us, then you must be against us. People get scared enough, they pick a team. Be it for Buddha or Krishna or Christ, I believe God is that place between belief and what you name it. I believe holy is what you do when there is nothing between your actions and the truth.

The truth is I’m afraid to draw your black lines around me, I’m not always pale in the middle, I come in too many flavors for one fucking spoon. I am never one thing or the other.  At night I am everything I fear, tears and sorrows, black windows and muffled screams. In the morning, I am all I ever want to be: rain and laughter, bare footprints and invisible seams, always without breath or definition. I claim every single dawn, for yesterday is simply what I was, and tomorrow even that will be gone.

Freaking awesome. Love.

Barbie and Ken by Rafael Casal

Steven Hutchison's poem

Steven Hutchison is pretty much (a) genius. I originally met him through his girlfriend (the one and only awesomesauce Kelly!), but am taking World Lit from Fitts with him this semester. Now we sit by each other every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and talk about words and ideas. It's fun.

He was also the only other person on campus I discovered does spoken word. And damn does he do it. He made the No Coast Slam Team with me, and I'm uber glad he did. He's mother-freaking awesome. He's legit, deep, interesting, non-judgmental (at least not verbally that I've seen :-) and creates beautiful works of word art.

Hmmm, not to be confused with wordart for Microsoft Word. Because that would just be gross--I think there should be a legal ban against wordart. But his words are truly artwork, and I can't wait to see what sort of fantastic things we'll come up with working together over the summer.

Oh! And Fitts wants to get us into the prison with him (he does prison ministry) to perform the "Peaceable Kin-dom" poem. We performed it for Peace Week, and Fitts really liked it. I really hope it works out, cuz I think the piece is amazingly powerful. And it would just be an incredible experience all on its own. There are so many awesome things happening in my life right now involving poetry, from the slam team to Tiny Hands, that I just don't even know what to expect next.

The latest poem by Steven Hutchison:

I wish poetry were like a dandelion.
After it’s blossomed and the pedals have all fallen out,
I wish I could blow a little breath over it
And watch as the seeds spread out like migratory birds.
Knowing that these seeds, these words, will bring change
And understanding that the source of the transformation
Is not found in me, but in that same spirit,
Ever-fleeting, creativity.

I wish poetry were an axe.
I would wield my weapon wisely
And take aim for that one in particular,
That overgrown tree of hatred.
I would swing, and I would swing, and I would swing again
Until that cursed tree, to my relief, would bear its ugly fruit no more.
And gazing upon its stump on the forest floor,
Should my hands begin to grow calloused and sore,
I would stand and hold the hand of my fellow lumberjacks.

I wish poetry were graffiti,
So that I could tag the ceilings of each greeting
With my love and feelings of joy.
I would buy cans of paint the color of my soul
And I would blot out the systems of fear and control.
I would paint over the mirrors that told you you were fat.
I would paint…
I would paint sounds of pianos and scat.

Sometimes I wish poetry were a knife
So that I could sever the ties that bind me to this world,
That I could fly.
And see from the nest of some falcon afar
The world in perspective.
Then I might see you for who you are.

But alas, poetry is but mere words.

Well damn it, I disagree and so does this here bird.
For I have painted the skies of the eyes of too many,
And I have seen seeds blossom into gold and green,
And you can bet your ass I’ve taken a few swings
At the trunk of that God-forsaken cherry tree.
So fly, cut, paint, blow, fall that tree, and for heaven’s sake,
Partake of the mystery of Poetry.

Damn

Where do you keep your dreams?

My Flask by Maria Solomilla Mealla

I keep a flask of dreams strapped tightly to my thigh.
It's cold at first, but speeds to the warmth of my blood.
I take it with me where I can't afford the price of dreams,
Where dreaming is socially unacceptable,
Or where they only sell a certain type of dream.

I share it with the hopeful.
I know that look when they walk through open doors,
End up at the wrong place, or at the right place,
And then realize it's not what they wanted.

I slip it in their hands as we lock eyes with complicity
No explanations, no questions asked
I watch them drink, watch dreaming take effect.
I watch their eyes sparkle and skin flush
The warmth runs through their veins,
their hearts beat hard.

I watch that moment, wait for it.
That one specific beat in time in which they clearly know
What they want, what it takes, what they have to do
My heart pounds for their dreams to happen

"Lets share dreams!" my eyes scream
"I'll walk the journey with you
We'll hold hands, I'll dream them too."
My flask is handed back to me
We hold it together, don't look away, don't let go.

And suddenly it doesn't matter where we are.

I wanna grow into something none of us have ever seen before

When I was a kid I would sometimes
Secretly call myself Andrew
Would tug at the crotch of my pants the way
Only pubescent boys do
Ran around pounding on my bare chest like tarzan
It’s not that I thought I’d grow up to be a man
I just never thought I’d grow up to be a woman either
From what I could tell neither of those categories
Seemed to fit me
But believe me, I knew from a very young age never to say
Hey dad, this adam and eve thing isn’t really working for me
I mean, what about all the people in between?
In the third grade lynette lyons aksed me
Where all of my barbies were
I lied and told her I got in trouble
So my mom took them away
I didn’t dare say: barbie sucks, lynette!
And for that matter tommy, so does gi joe
I wanna grow into something none of us have ever seen before
And gender is just one of the ways
We’re boxed in and labeled before we’re ever able
To speak who we believe we are
Or who we dream we’ll become
Like drumbeats forever changing their rhythm
I am living today as someone I had not yet become yesterday
And tonight I will borrow only pieces of who I am today
To carry with me to tomorrow
No I’m not gay
No I’m not straight
And I’m sure as hell not bisexual damnit
I am whoever I am when I am it.
Loving whoever you are when the stars shine
And whoever you’ll be when the sun rises
Yes, I like girls
Yes, I like boys
Yes, I like boys who like boys
I like girls who wear toys and girls who don’t
Girls who don’t call themselves girls
Crew cuts or curls or that really bad hair phase in between
I like steam rising from the body of a one-night stand
I like holding hands for three months before kissing
I like wishing your body was Saturn
My body a thousand rings wrapped around you
You wanted to be a Buddhist nun once
Last night you held my cervix between your fingers
I thanked gods I don’t believe in for your changing
Tell me we’ll be naming our children beautiful and nothing else
Tell Barbie she can go now
Tell gi joe to put his gun down and find a boyfriend
Or a girlfriend
Or a girl/boyfriend
Fuck it, gi joe just needs a friend, y’all
I mean, he’s plastic
And not even the kind of plastic that bends
I want to bend in a thousand directions
Like the sun does
Like love does
Like time stopped
So the hands of the clock could hold each other
And we held each other like I held these words
For too many years on the tip of my tongue
I am my mother’s daughter
I am midnight’s sun
You can find me on the moon
Waxing and waning
My heart full of petals
Every single one begging
Love me, love me, love me
Whoever I am
Whoever I become

If this is your definition of hope, this is for you

You are beautiful

Unfortunately I couldn't find a way to embed the following video. Check out Incisors by Jim Huscher. FUCKING AMAZING. I hope there's a way to access the whole piece once the voting is finished. This has become one of my absolute favorite poems <3

Edit: I just watched Red Light by William Evans. That one is amazing too.

Edit.2: I just learned how to embed from Podslam:

I want to live like this

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi 

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I 
may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Someday, she'll be there.

You'll Make for a Perfect Rainy Weekend

by Michael Steingas 

One morning I'll wake up and you'll be beside me:
snoring, hair a mess, sprawled on my side of the bed, hogging the covers.
I'll rub my eyes and glance at the clock...
then realize it's the weekend
and neither of us has anywhere to be.
Pulling back some blankets
I'll wrap my arm around your chest,
interlace my leg with yours,
and sleep for another hour.

Finally getting up, I'll look out the window
and watch raindrops slipping down the glass
as I turn on the coffeemaker
and pull two black mugs from the dishwasher.
More cream in yours, more sugar in mine
(though walking back to wake you
I'll forget which is which).

Selfishly I'll gently shake you out of sleep,
you'll squint your eyes at me
and curl up with your head in my lap.
The coffee will get cold
but we'll be plenty warm without it.

Rulers of the World by Michael Steingas

This sunrise must be why some people
sacrifice late-night fast food runs
and midnight sitcom reruns.
This refreshing feeling that makes you feel
like you can take on the world in a breath.
Knowing you're more responsible than mother nature
who is slowly rubbing her eyes and rolling her colors out of bed.

But I also know why some people
don't think about sleep until all the others are awakening.
It's their time to rule the world. No interruptions.
They'll call it "studying," "cramming," "term-paper bullshitting"
when really they're in a room with their best friend
laughing uncontrollably, stuffing themselves with caffeine and junk food,
taking pictures with a webcam.

So it doesn't matter if at 4 a.m.
you're waking up or going to sleep.
Either you were just infinitely powerful
or are about to be.

Nameless Spirit by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Nameless spirit,
indefinable essance,
I live with the formless
life of idea.

I swim in the void,
I quiver in the bonfire of teh sun,
I palpitate among the shadows
and I float with the mists.

I am the gold braid
of the distant star;
I am the lukewarm, serene light
of the high moon.

I am the burning cloud
that undulates in the west:
I am the luminous wake
of the wandering star.

A Pine is Standing Lonely by Heinrich Heine

Translated by Hal Draper

A pine is standing lonely

In the North on a bare plateau.

He sleeps; a bright white blanket

Enshrouds him in ice and snow.

He's dreaming of a palm tree

Far away in the Eastern land

Lonely and silently mourning

On a sunburnt rocky strand.

(I totally feel like this pine tree).

For my friends frustrated with our electronic lives

I wish I could find the words written down somewhere.

Lines I love from Andrea Gibson's "Yes"


"so this is for the day we'll quit or jobs and work for something real

we'll feel for sunshine in the shadows
look for sunrays in the shade
"

I want to dream this poem too

Frank Sinatra by Katie Wirsing

matthew shepard martyr magic or (msm)m by Sam Sax

before they pen your name into law
and erase the last byrd on earth
i hear you were a boy.

though their throats often cast
childhood like faggot into
brimstone.

those 22 years of dying
could be called experience.