Uncategorized

Another Love Letter

So, this is a love letter
from me
to you
for us.

Quiet Cream
and well moisturized Tan
were my first warm
and appreciative glimpse of you

Engaged listener.
Looks gay men in wounded eyes
while listening,
then speaking,
searching for
and finding acceptance,
at least for here
and now.

While both our neuro-systems ask,
with each breath inhaled,
Am I safe?
Each breath exhaled,
Is this healthy?

Or maybe,
ummm…
“I’ll have to think about that.”

Not so much
as a glance my witnessing way,
Wondering,
Is he why I am here?
I hope

Would I be appropriate
to here become
for just one Other?

You were not distracted
easily
from eyes
and voices
surrounding your place
in this 44th chapter
in not patriarchal,
but truly not green ecofeminist either,
Gayla BTQ versatile,
exclusive top,
promiscuously inclusive bottom,
anonymous,
romantic-erotic,
occasionally sacredly orgasmic,
political sex health history.

I wondered
then
as now
where we could fit

In gaps of loneliness
of not being fully known,
exposed,
spiritually and naturally naked
transparent
vulnerable,
fully co-invested,
transculturally cooperative,
co-empathic
co-passionate,
quietly completing each other’s unsaid senses,
thoughts,
integrity,
warmth,
refulgent quenching wetness.

Then, that first smile
just for me.

I am lost to your white teeth,
left-sided dimple,
eyelashes heavy lidding brown-eyed welcome
despite it all

Trust in integrity’s healing potential
after considering all losses,
stressors,
past troubling relationships
in gay white male privilege.

There we were
and here we are
ongoing

Me
writing this love letter,

You
curiously waiting to hear
and see
and feel,
to touch
and be touched by,
something possibly on your way,
a lovely surprise

Because
No one writes love letters
evermore

Painlessly including
those in quiet ecstasy
for quiet Cream
and well-moisturized Tan.

Standard
Uncategorized

Reds Against Queens

Although I am a queer white Queen
let me reassure you
I can be just as mean
or as green,
Mr. Clean,
as any fascist
conjured in your wildest
wettest dream.

I can kick my ruby RightWing heels
and hold my green skanky breath
as long as it takes, tis true,
until you eventually agree
to turn less boring white
and unenlightened blue

It’s true,
I can spread my fascist net
get in line with Straight White Men
with penile envy
of dark-skinned vets
you never could acknowledge seeing
in the singing shower
much less slurping
in your homophobic panic
nastiest place to hide
just yet.

Although a queer male Queen
married to the blackest man
you’ve ever seen,

You may rest re-assured
I’ve clearly found it true
as blue:
Once a person
and a nation
has tried black,
There’s a whole lotta happy folk
don’t care to go back
to refight a civil war
against a white flight bully bore

Supremely self-chosen evangelists,
y’all just help me
deeply snore.

You think
and feel,
know
and spiel,
I’m rotten to my core
because, like your sissy sister
it’s men this male adores

But, if men were good enough
for your sainted mother,
and hers too,
and my two,
let me introduce this thought
to you

It wouldn’t really make you
all that blue
to admit just maybe
all that pleasure
could suit a special man just fine
too,

But, don’t worry,
be happy,
I’m not the least bit hot
for white bread
RightWing you.

Standard
Uncategorized

NonDueling Conductors

A Straight
White
Elder Patriarch
came in to where I RightBrain sing
my Gay
White
EcoFeminist way

He seems to want to stay,
to overpower my say
and will to sing
our musing pray

Because…
why?
I wonder what he feels
about me,
us,
about his own deep harmonic longing
to listen for our sung together feelings

Music therapy
composed of what we economically
and politically Trust,
wanting mutual
and actively co-invested
full singing circle harmonic Wins right now
to Win more easily tomorrow’s healthing way

And what might this PatriCapitalist feel
he does not want?
Perhaps less Win/Lose
ZeroSum power and light assumptions
actively distrusted
settling for more traumatic apartheid,
denial of interdependently woven relationship,
nature v spirit non-indigenous dualism
divorced from his own prehistoric felt experience
longing to avoid further nihilistic Lose/Lose
trauma
decay
pain
loss
degeneration.

Am I distracting
dissonant
too RightBrain gooey
for serious performance competition
with Your church choir’s
true blue bought and sold
commodified liturgical purpose?

To put on a good LeftBrain entertaining show

Rituals about cooperatively enjoying
our win/win WholeEarth health-care receiving
and resilient wealth-care giving
by conducting bicamerally harmonic potential

For healthier democracies,
more cooperatively owned EarthPartnership,
more inclusive multicultural polypaths
for universally unitarian polyphonic
constellations of integral systemic Voice

Yang yintegrally
WuWei
less Western sociopathic trauma
best forgiven through compassionate
indigenously polycultural
wellness sung and danced

Win health Voices
to Win resilient wealth Choices
for green ego/ecosystemic leadership

Con-celebrating BlueSky/GreenEarth
light and power felt
warm harmonic need
for more and better
inter-religious
intersectional
interdependently reweaving
healthy democratic communion

Which is what I need
and want to say
about how I seem to feel
when a Straight
White
Elder Patriarch
comes in to where I RightBrain sing
my Gay
White
EcoFeminist way.

Standard
Uncategorized

A Place For Everyone

My EarthMom,
whom I worshiped without question
at least until age ten,
often repeated,
“A place for everything
and everything in its place.”

She was usually talking about kitchen tools,
but I took this issue of place
more personally.

By age ten,
I knew universal hospitality
and redemption
do not invite
or even intend
to include me.

Well-placed safe homes
exclude me,
out of place
in a heterosexual world view
and no natural
or spiritual place to hide
except trembling within demonic secrecy.

It took me awhile,
at least a couple decades
of shunning my beloved Mom

To realize my placement problem
has less to do with choosing to hide
in my out of place closet,
and everything to do
with unquestioned dogmatic homophobia
carrying on in the family room.

Standard
Uncategorized

An Anxiously Anticipated Event

Dear John,

All day
yesterday
I loaded up with a cascading river
of mixed anxiety and anticipation
about what to safely and kindly,
transparently and vulnerably
compassionately, so non-violently, share
communicate;

Which narrative tributaries to choose
within this vast spacetime stream
of choices
directions
felt depressions and erections.

Do you remember
communication theory
framed as Rhetorical Events?

Our initial walk and talk,
eating together,
rather than my refrigerator foraging
brunchtime usual rawfood practice,
is a graced green,
rain giving way to blue, memory for me,
and, I hope, for we
these sacred walking
secular talking
people.

Successful rhetorical events,
as I recall,
and have co-passionately experienced
with ecstatic thrills
and mysterious chills of anticipation,
wanting more and more
cascading throughout my too isolated life,

Are cooperatively held spaces
resonant and verbal and non-verbal places
longing to become resilient
as ultra-violet light
in phosphorescent mystical night,
bright
and warm
without ballistic fright,
inviting sounds of sight.

So I drove home
basking in such rich
potentially resilient
transparent and vulnerable
articulate yet impassioned
felt experience
confirming all my own ego’s grand theories
about win/win non-violent
Rhetorical compassioning
Events.

My anxieties spoke later
about mutual physical
natural, yet also spiritual,
attraction–
this smell and taste neurological chemistry
of touch exhaling
to co-empathically predict
our romantically felt quality
inhaling integrity’s great resilient passions,
shared loves
communal,
deeply green cooperative,
that rhetorical day
as true and beautiful for us.

It has been thirty years
since my last first date,
with a man who became my unanticipated husband,
partner
spouse
lover
quarreler
critic
listener
emotive voice
co-investor
political ally
communicator
miscommunicator
long-term rhetorical event
cooperative space-holder,
mediator
not really quite green enough
for resonant felt
and thought co-passionate experience
near our end
of cohabitation.

Nearly half my lifetime,
thirty years,
and I feel anxious
I have not yet learned
appropriate new old person rules
of transparency
and vulnerability
to be clear
and kind,
compassionately clear
about my natural/spiritual
physical/metaphysical attractions,
anticipations,
anxieties.

When I last dated
a gay encounter of the first kind
either ended nakedly together
or with a scheduled second date
with a bed
or a sling
or a deserted moonlit beach
front and center on our anticipated menu

Or ended in disaster,
no connection,
no further warm and resonant communication,
no passing green light Go!

I did not “date”
men who lived so very far away,
out of state,
unless one of us was planning to relocate
or both of us were anticipating
an extremely resonant
one hot night stand
lying down together,
exploring all the vertical
and horizontal dances
we could imagine ever wishing we had done
to further gather
future’s warm anticipations.

I am anxious
because I do not want to disappoint you
or me
about our embodied
non-verbal communication
and passion together.

My own nakedness
lies nowhere near my vulnerable
and transparent self-esteem
as was the case
when I last dated
and I do not know
what to do
and not do
with that.

I have no mentors,
no wise teachers,
no therapeutic facilitators,
no sex therapist
to talk and touch me through
this anxiety.

But, I do anticipate
an unfortunate comparison
I met on our silvered dating site
the same day I first heard you
connect climate pathological effects
with capitalistic causes,
which immediately won my curiosity
to know
just how deeply knowing
we might go
together,
and not apart.

I met another singer
another meditator
another deeply
physically connected
to Taoist sensory communication
yangly verbal and yin non-verbal,

More physically incarnated
and less metaphysically abstract
less theoretical
merely rhetorical
more mature
aged
connected like wine with cheese
and re-connected
than my own experience
in how to mutually
yet maturely
please.

Last evening we talked.
His voice sings and rings,
warmly chills and quietly thrills.

And, he is closer.
Teaches dance.
We anticipate learning together
how to tango horizontally
without creating an entangled mess
at our ripe old average age
of 69

Which,
when I last dated
was a cooperatively rhetorical
erotic position
and not an age
which we sensually anticipated
without great anxiety
about resilience
of sensual resonance.

For me,
this need not be a win or lose,
either-or situation.
Even less so
if I thought the two of you
would appreciate each other
in this partner searching
lifeline rivered
shivered way,
but that is not what I would anticipate
either of you would say.

So, that is what is on my mind
and heart
and root chakras
this another deep green
ego-centering
and ecosystemic rhetorical day.

Said my vertical horizontal way,
physical and metaphysical
natural and spiritual
secular and sacred
love with you
and hell to pay,
anxiously anticipating
your kind
non-maligned
response.

Standard
Uncategorized

Summer Saturday

On a Michigan farmer Saturday
in August,
anticipating tomorrow’s evangelical Sabbath,

When late summer vacations
invoked pre-sacred house cleanings
more unusually light,

Heading outside after lunch
into this spectacularly breezy
blue billowing
discontinuously cumulus cloudy
in-between radiant sky blue
infinite wonder

Into this awesomely long leisurely afternoon
becoming one of those special kids
sent out to rediscover solitary play
while Mom clears HER kitchen
to fill our kitchen
with impossible fragrance
of Sunday dinner rhubarb pie
or fresh strawberry shortcake,
whipping vanilla or banana cream
while boiling sweet yellow corn,
baking mac and ancient cheddar cheese
for this evening’s pre-dusk compline dinner.

On this first summer celebrating Saturday
of low humidity
and temperatures predicting September 70s

Out past our red barn
and past its barnyard lily pond
and into golden stubbled hay fields,
sheared sexy contoured face
of my temporarily uncloseted gay imaginings
hoping for YangGod’s sexiest face
smiling in sabbath of return

Continuing on
to private green cool woodland
to nakedly climb a favorite tree
skin to naked bark,
full-bodied embrace
of this fabulous shared EarthLife
transparent
and open
and breezy free with God’s inclusive hope.

Out to play
and pray
this day
and month
and vacation
and re-creation
will never end

Or end,
if time must continue,
in moonlit radiant peace,
night dreams
of asking into perfect Sabbath.

Standard
Uncategorized

Slow-Cooked Conversion Stories

I was raised in one of those white nationalist churches,
passing itself off as a Christian evangelical Bible church,
where “evangelical” meant fundamental
and “fundamental” meant we did not interpret scripture
but accepted it as God’s literal trans-historical Word
of universal white male dominant
Bible thumping supremacy,
transcendently un-changing like…
like…
like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard
or smelled or tasted

Which is why we call not-Him-or-Her “God”
and not “SuperEgo”
or multicultural “Gaia”

Or anything else.
It turns out “God”
is a bit like not saying Valdemore’s name;
As Yahweh
is more about the ambiguously missing vowels
than their YHWH
YYXY
Either/Or-Both/And
bicameral structure.

Anyway, enough about sacred bisensory ecology.
While at People’s Bible Church
I was told, by all the white heterosexual adults
supporting and educating me
that being born again is not a gradual thing,
like growing into a pubescent body,
but instant,
like convenient oatmeal
or inferior mashed potatoes.

If I could not say,
with one hundred percent persuasion,
that I was reborn in Christ
on May 8, 1964
at 2:53 PM
Eastern Savings Time,
Just as I was originally born
on May 8, 1952
at 2:53 A.M.,
much to my mother’s inconvenience–
finished just in time to get home
to our dairy farm
for an unleisurely visit with “The Girls”
during her morning milking parlor gig–
Then the deviant
devilish mark of Satan
still clouds my not so milky white
not straight enough
not truly pure soul.

Such instant and yet resilient grace
felt unlikely to me.

I did not instantly lose hope
for a hot SantaDaddy
sliding down our family chimney
emerging from the family wood-burning furnace,
scorched of unnecessary
and superfluous clothes
to give me all the fruited manly gifts
I have felt so empty without
warm and wet accompaniment,
accomplishment.

Gradually,
over several years of neglecting this Santa myth
as cultural fantasy,
I did not wake up on May 8, 1956,
at 2:53 A.M.
and announce to all those not listening,
“I no longer believe in Santa Claus.”

De-mythification progress
seems to take me
about as long as my left-brain
dominating commodification process
took to grow into queer adolescence,
feeling unsafe,
unwanted,
with a best case possible future
of invisible insignificance,
hidden deeply beneath healthy humility.

Just as it took awhile to comfortably acclimate
to the toothlessness of myth,
It took me all my development years
on into late adolescence
to be sure that I would never safely
or resiliently convert
into a heterosexual.

When we were mutually experimenting grade school boys
during not much sleep overs
I was sure we shared the same destiny–
future heterosexuals,
Mr. Cleavers,
Mr. Smiths
not all too fascinated with Mr. Johnsons.

I didn’t suddenly realize,
“Oops. I failed to convert.”
Maybe I was a late bloomer,
just as some girls get pubes
and teats
and mensies later on
which seemed like more unfair girl pressure
than just sprouting new hair in old moist places
and growing at least somewhat less girlish voices.

Just as there was no May 8, 2:53 P.M.
of any year
when I knew,
“OK, that’s it.
It’s done growing
in both length and width.”
I had no day or night
when I said,
“OK, that’s it.
I choose to be queer”
so I can be the target of hate crimes,
bad jokes,
white Christian heterosexual predators,
bigoted employers,
homophobic police
and teachers
and parents
and siblings,
and preachers

Fully capable of witnessing against me
the exact date, time, and year
they began their life long love affair
with white male Jesus Christ,
straight (presumably) Jewish carpenter’s apprentice,
Son of God and…
and…
God,
who finished creating Earth,
and at least our entire Solar System,
exactly seven days
after He started, on May 8th
at 2:53 A.M.,
year 0000.

I have developed health-considered faith
in win/win progressive processes.
I accept that faith actively hopes in unseen relationships,
unheard communications,
unnoticed actions and reactions.

Still,
I find an always changing
transparent
vulnerable,
courageously curious difference
between left-brain statements of verbal instant faith,
and right/left-brain emerging lifeskill learnings
conversions
healings
redemptively felt economies,
salvific co-relational powers,

And I have trouble believing
that such ubiquitous differences
between slow-grown processive maturation
and imitative instant role-playing
is only accessible to queers,
white, black, brown, red, purple, green, or ultra-violet,
born on May 8, 1952
at 2:53 A.M.
much to the inconvenience
of busy heterosexual
pre-millennial dairy farmers.

Standard
Uncategorized

Queer Music

They lived across from each other
on and off the center floor dorm hall,
both on the much discussed
controversial LeftWing side.

Yang perused Yin’s CDs,
“I see you like that queer music,
Elton John
and Luther VanDross
and George Michael.
I didn’t notice that before.”

Yin responds quietly
calmly
amused:

First,
I don’t believe music is gay or straight,
but most everything related in-between
harmonic and dissonant,
diminished and replenished.

Lyrics may be queer or predictable
but usually flow well
either way
telling co-relating creation stories
of nature’s neural positives
and negatives
surfing back and forth
in and out
before and after
here and there
now and then
and yet to climax
polypathic health
as polyphonic wealth.

But, Second,
Feels to me all music,
maybe all muses,
are queer
when I think holistically about it,
us,
them,
verbally thought and non-verbally felt,
internally touched

By a rhetorical moment
we curiously know as music
without noticing how radically unlikely
regenerative processes
compassionate evolutions
could ever reproduce such homo-ingenious sounds,
rhythms,
patterns,
colors,
textures,
stories,
epic original empathic creations
and co-empathic octaved recreations
within such a LeftBrain heterosexual white privileged
RightWing capitalistic
narcissistically greedy
UnQueer Marching Against
the Great Historic/Futuristic muse and prophets
of harmony,
despite dissonance,
resonance,
despite fading resilience of Baby Xers,
polyphonic yin-mused light,
despite polynomial not not
climate of touch and feel dualdarkness.

Meanwhile Yang
couldn’t hear too well
since opening the window
facing spring
listening
to a cranked up RocketMan,
while athletically dancing to hot not unqueer music,
and Yin’s ears swayed tenderly after and before
queer musing
straight talk.

 

 

 

Standard
Uncategorized

Feather Pillowed Fighting Stalk

My handsome brown-skinned husband
was once again velvet-voiced complaining
just this morning
while I was staring
glaring at my overstuffed sock drawer,

“You are so consistently ambivalent
and reliably inconsistent
I have no idea what’s coming next
from your lack of erection direction.

You ‘both-and’ everything
hopelessly,
yet tirelessly,
looking for the perfectly balanced win-win
in a win-lose
eat or be eaten world.
I have no idea
what you would do without me.”

Although I somewhat more hopefully resemble this remark
and I can see he is not not wrong,
or right,
totally dark or totally bright,
all his “either black or white”
left-brain dominance
does sound impatiently judgmental.

So, in an impulsive moment of ginger anger,
I respond

“You are so poor
you’ve never had two co-incidental thoughts
to rub together.”

“Is that like a mixed metaphor
or something sinister
unpulled together?
Anyway, that sounds shockingly ungenerous
from win-win you.”

“Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“What feelings?”

“I think my question is
Which feelings did I hurt?”

“My feelings about personal wealth
and left-embodied with right-mind cooperative
win-win political health
to handle your dipolar co-arising appositions.”

Maybe I’ll go with one old dark sock
and one white privileged.

Standard
Uncategorized

Love Hate Comparisons

I want to live in a healthy place,
at least as mature as junior high school,
where who I reciprocally love,
gay or straight or span-sexually in-between,
is not a political and economic football,
a wildly bouncing and rebounding issue
full of hot air
for others to kick around
and divest of
as they lose punishing interest.

Yet who we choose to hate,
deviantly or not,
is a BusinessAsUsual privatized non-issue
for an unhealthy society
to publicly notice
before quickly fading
into private fields
of NO TRESPASSING apartheid.

I would strongly prefer
to never apologize
for who I healthy love,
than unhealthy hate.

Standard