“Dating app racism is a huge problem for gay men—and we are talking about it all wrong.”

By now we are used to the righteous outrage that accompanies stories about gay and queer folks’ behavior on dating apps. Usually it starts with some guy, usually a conventionally attractive white guy, or more accurately, the torso of a possibly attractive white guy, posting on his Grindr/Growlr/Scruff profile that he is looking just looking for friends and conversation, that he is masc. for masc. and oh, he isn’t into Blacks and or Asians. Then a person, often a Black or Asian queer boy writes the harms of sexual racism. Next, the story goes viral and comments are posted on Facebook and Twitter, some echoing the author’s position. Then a rebuttal piece is inevitably published defending the queer right that is sexual preference. That story goes viral–somewhat, and comments are posted on Facebook and Twitter. Eventually, we all forget about sexual racism and then in a few months the cycle repeats. Exhausting. This week Samantha Allen’s Daily Beast article,  “‘No Blacks,’ Is Not a Sexual Preference. It’s Racism” set of the latest round of sexual racism discourse, and while she is not a Black queer boy the effect for me is the same: exhaustion. Popular media conversations about sexual racism are tiring and boring mainly because not only is nothing new being said, but the discourse always picots around the desires and practices of white gay men and this simultaneously privileges whiteness. Privileging whiteness and white men  is as American as apple pie. This privileging also ignores the problem of Black men who don’t seek out other people of color on hookups and queer culture. In other words, it begs a question: Why, beautiful Black boy, are you so upset that, that white boy in the window doesn’t want you?

Samantha Allen is not alone in centering whiteness in conversations about sexual racism; in fact most of us do it– it is the default way to discuss sexual racism: What are the white boys doing wrong? For example, in December of 2014, The Huffington Post posted Nathan Manske’s article about Nelson Lassiter’s interview for the queer site, “I’m From Driftwood.” The video can be found on the site rather quickly. Just type “racism” in the search bar and it is one of the first videos to appear. One of only a few on the topic. The focus of the video: Lassiter’s struggles with attempting to date white men. They find him attractive but they (whomsoever he is talking to) are just not into Black guys. Not once is it brought up or asked to Lassiter: Are you into Black guys?  

The heavy focus on white men’s sexual racism is possibly most evident in the area of gay porn. Really, more of us should be talking about porn because, as Dwight McBride tells us in why i hate abercrombie and fitch, that everything you want to know about the gay marketplace of desire is on display in gay porn. Where different bodies rank; who is valued, who is not, and who the imagined consumers are, which in turn reveals who is imagined to comprise the gay community: white men. This is despite the fact that we know that Black folk are more likely to claim a LGBTQ identity. Several sites ( Straight Up Gay Porn, Instinct Magazine, The Huffington Post) have touched upon sexual racism in gay porn–to little actual substantial studio change–but most often the focus is on who’s to blame (models, studios, or consumers) with everyone passing the buck, or it is a blanket un-nuanced defense of sexual racism in porn as fantasy. Often the solution presented to combat sexual racism in porn is to create more interracial scenes, but, this may be hard to do for material reasons–also tied to sexual racism.  Popular white gay porn performer Tom Faulk gave an interview to the gay porn blog Straight Up Gay Porn,  and one of the questions asked, by a fan, was whether or not he would do an interracial scene.  Faulk claimed that while in his personal life he has had sex with Black folk, in front of the camera it just doesn’t pay: “My only problem with doing interracial is that the pay scale is lower–especially for the Black performer.”  Still, again, the conversation revolves around white men willing to do scenes with Black men.

Not a single story is about Black men refusing to do scenes with white men. This creates a picture that it is just assumed that Black men will be willing to perform with white men. Also left unexamined: Black men like Sean Cody’s Landon or adult performer Troy Moreno, or former Cocky Boy Austin Wilde who either never or rarely perform with other Black men. Actually, when Austin Wilde finally performed with another Black man the porn blog The Sword ran a story about the event under the headline: “Austin Wilde Has Sex WIth Another  Black Man For The First Time!” The piece opens with a line stating that folks complaining about Austin Wilde’s lack of Black male costars can now stop complaining–because he has one, finally after five years in the business. Defensive much? In the story Austin Wilde blamed his former studio for his lack of Black scene partners. Unexamined was that Wilde, performing for his own company, took almost a year before he performed with another Black man and he still is much more likely to have a white (or white-presenting) scene partner than a Black scene partner. In fact, Austin Wilde seemed bothered that people would question whether he could actually be sexually racist since he is biracial, but is it really that odd of a question?

What do we have to point to in mainstream culture that says Black queer love on its own is good? Everytime I hear a person complain about white men not seeking Black romantic partners, I also hear an unverbalized confession: firstly, that Black men should want white partners, at least enough that I should bother us when they don’t want us, and secondly, certain Black men just aren’t checking for other Black men. White men are not the only ones who are sexually racist. Can we ever forget the 2013, cringe-worthy “Ask Mister Carl” post where a “smart, good looking African-American man” was seeking advice as to how to get a white man’s attention because he “wanna be down with the swirl”?

Yesterday, over a spicy bowl of Thom Yum at Pho Grand, a popular St. Louis Thai restaurant, a friend lamented to me about his experiences dating, and in one story he told me about how another Black man told him that dark-skinned men were unattractive. This man, himself an attractive dark-skin man, could not see the beauty in other folk with his skin complexion. This is the conversation I am interested in having, the one that needs to happen. What does it say when Black men are not desiring other black men? What does it say when a piece like the brilliant Hari Zyaid’s “Choosing Black Love: Why I am Unlikely to Spend My Life With  a White Personn,”  feels so refreshing and progressive? Ziyad’s piece dares to put at its center the desires and preferences of a Black man. It just so happens that it is attached to other Black men, but the revolutionary act is that it centers Blackness. Too often when Black desires are centered there is a quick reaction to recenter whiteness. This can be seen in Gabe Zicherman’s response to Lamar Dawson’s July 13, 2015 Huffington Post blog demanding that white men stop objectifying men of color.  Zicherman didn’t seem to understand that Dawson’s post had nothing to do with wanting white men to like him or not like him, but had more to do with him being a Black man and setting the terms for how he should be interacted with by white men. He was centering Blackness, but Zicherman responded with a post that centered whiteness, assured us that white men really like us, and said, “don’t take away my preference rights.”

At the end of the day, I’m just like Mary J. searching for that real love, but I just don’t believe that, that real love is somehow better when a white man checks for me. If he does, fine. If he doesn’t then that is also fine. He is not my center, my reflections are, and there is beauty in this mirror. After all, Joseph Beam did say: Black men loving Black men is the radical act of the 1980s. And it still is in the 00s.

“Rape Culture Is When Owen Labrie Is found Not Guilty of Rape”

It’s a rite-of-passage, seeing just how many girls you can have sex with by the end of senior year. The more girls you sleep with, the more of a man you are. The girls themselves don’t actually matter. They are just a means to an end. In 1999 this was called American Pie.  In 2015, we learned that at St. Paul’s School it is called the “Senior Salute.”

In the spring of 2014, Owen Labrie, a senior at the prestigious St. Paul’s School, participated in the “Senior Salute .” Labrie invited his victim, a freshman girl, to the mechanic room with him. she consented to going to the room. She consented to kissing, to exploration. What she did not consent to was sex.

Labrie claims that sex did not occur, and that whatever did occur was consensual. In other words, “I did not have sex with that woman but if I did, she wanted it.” The jury listened to testimony mostly from the prosecution, very little testimony from the defense (Labrie was their only witness) and after two days of deliberation, came to a verdict, which was a compromise.

Labrie, according to the jury, did have sex with the young girl, but she did not make it clear enough that she did not want to have sex.  So, basically, Labrie lied about whether or not he had sex with the victim  but he was still deemed truthful enough to be believed that she really wanted it.  

The New York TimesJess Bidgood got it wrong. At its core, the Labrie rape case was not was not “about an intimate encounter last year between a 15-year-old girl and an 18-year-old acquaintance, and whether she consented as it escalated.” Instead, this case was about  how our culture continues to excuse sexual violence. This was about how we continue to define consent as being what is most convenient for the sexual aggressor. With the defense’s line of questioning, and even the discussion on social media, it was a jarring reminder of what rape culture is, and just how young anyone can get initiated into it.

At Talking Points Memo, Amanda Marcotte writes that the defense team’s success is that it depended upon rape myths: first, “that women  reclassify consensual sex as ‘rape’ in order to preserve their reputations” and second,  “that rape victims always act traumatized and freak out at the mere sight of their rapist after the fact.” These myths have been prominently feed by recent prominent rape trials and by popular culture.

For example, for those of us old enough to remember the 90s’ Beverly Hills 90210, there was a character, Laura, who accused a core character, Steve, of date rape. Rather than tackling what consent meant, the show had queen bee Kelly Taylor, a central character who was a victim of date rape, publicly chastise Laura. Kelly told her that a girl cannot just change her mind later because she regrets a sexual experience and call it rape.

Yet, that was not enough. 90210 brought Laura back and established her as a neurotic college woman desperate for attention. After falsely accusing Steve of rape, she falsely accuses Brenda Walsh of sleeping her way into a lead stage role. Later, in true dramatic soap opera fashion, Laura tries to hang herself onstage  for attention. The message was clear: women who claim they have been raped are often lying, damaged, and crazy.

As for the second myth noted by Marcotte, our culture often imagines rape victims as fragile, broken, virtuous women who collapse at the sight of their victimizer. This is simply an untruth. In some ways it is often impossible. Rapists are not always strangers or visitors to one’s life, some people must interact with their rapist daily. Moreover the responses one can have to the trauma of rape varies from person to person. Some people minimize what they experienced, others struggle to call it rape, and there are debates around whether one is a rape victim or survivor of rape. There is no one way to experience rape, and survivors cope in different ways.

Culturally we insist that victims of rape manifest their trauma physically. We want rape victims to publicly cry, to shake, for their voices to quiver. Even though we tell rape victims it is not their fault, we want to see them struggle with the pain. Because, if we see this, then we know, they are telling the truth–they lived through something horrific. Jurists are not exempt from holding cultural biases. Consequently, most jurors hold  these beliefs, and it is they who decide the outcome of rape trials. And, rape trials, no matter how we intellectually maneuver around it, come down to: Do you believe her; does she seem like the type that in some way was asking it? The old, and tired, he said, she said debate.  

Feminist cultural critic Soraya Chemaly pointed out on the HuffPost Live,  how dangerous and problematic such framings are because people tend to have biases against believing women. Chemaly stated that jury studies show that when “a situation is complicated they tend not to believe  girls and women; they give credibility to [boys] and men.” In other words, jurors tend to believe men (who are more likely to commit rape) more often than women (who are more likely to be victims of rape).

In truth, often when one is raped, what is not talked about are the odd negotiations one goes through in order to process and survive the trauma. Marcotte, pulling from RAINN’s website,  writes that, “it’s not nuts for victims to think that if they just smile and play nice with their attacker, no one will ever find out and it will all be like it never happened.” It is also not “crazy” to realize that if you act a certain way, that if you interpret the event in a certain way then you are not a victim, that you are not one of those people.

On HuffPost Live’s coverage of the not guilty verdict, feminist cultural critic Soraya Chemaly stated that one of the problems we have in this country is that we don’t come from a position of  affirmative consent: “A lot of the trial seemed to involve rape mythologies. The jurors, I think, [grappled] with what they think of is legitimate rape, what counts. We don’t have in this courtroom or in our laws a yes means yes approach.”

On the same broadcast, former Feministing.com editor Samhita Mukhopadyay adovacted for a culture of affirmative consent. Mukhopadyay stated that, “what affirmative consent really does, is it gives us an opportunity to really centralize women’s pleasure and to say ‘let’s have a conversation about what I want this experience to be, let me set the tone for what I want this experience to be.’  And, it allows for a level of communication. So it is not just the only signifier you have is when you cross the line and there are some guidelines for when you want to have sex. [The problem with this verdict] is that it doesn’t question that sense of entitlement or male ownership of sexuality. The lesson here is, ‘Oh check her ID next time.” We currently have the opposite of such a culture.

What we have is a culture that struggles with what consent means. We have a culture where consent and rape are defined mainly by those least likely to be victims of rape. What we have is a culture where rape, despite all claims to contrary, is acceptable and permissible.

#RapeCultureIsWhen a defense team can rest its entire case after calling only one witness, the accused.

#RapeCultureIsWhen an accused  rapist’s word is deemed more believable than the victim’s who says she did not consent, his own friends’ testimonies  that he bragged about having sex with the victim, and testimony from experts.

#RapeCultureIsWhen a jury is not allowed to hear from an expert about what consent is and its nuances.

#RapeCultureIsWhen a school has a history of turning a blind-eye to a tradition of young boys coercing young women into sex, so that they can establish their manhood and masculinity.

#RapeCultureIsWhen: We as a country act as if rape (as defined by men) laws (voted on/approved by men) are established to protect the victim (who is usually a woman) rather than the perpetrator (who is usually a man).

Rape culture is what we have created. Rape culture is what we nurture. And, rape culture is what we protect when men like Owen Labrie are able to successfully argue that she just should have said no more forcefully.

Memories: Chicken Curry

It is about that time: Maurice’s Sunday Supper.

This month my guests are two poets and an academic so I’m sure the conversation will be on point as they are all wonderful smart beautiful people. So, that means I just need to worry about my responsibility, the meal. I try to pick meals that I am either craving, want to try, or have a special place in my heart. To that end, you won’t find extremely fancy meals at my dinner party, no Top Chef wanna be here, but what I hope you have if you come to my Sunday supper is the feeling of “going home.” I am not trying to wow you, I am trying to welcome you, make you feel loved.

This month I am cooking a meal I have loved since I was about 12. It is a simple meal with a very simple story.

When my family moved back state-side from the UK, for a summer we had a Jamaican lady who was going through a tough time, stay with us. She was so beautiful to me. Though she was sad, when she laughed it was full on, and her hair was a take on Toni Braxton’s except hers was a honey-brown. And when she walked, it seemed like she was two steps away from dancing. Well, one day, she was in the kitchen cooking, which was odd as I only knew her to eat but not to cook. I didn’t think she could. But, there she was, showing my mom, the best cook I knew, how to make a dish (my mom had already ate it before but wasn’t sure how to prep it). The smells were beyond seductive, and when I had my first bowl of the concoction served over hot white rice, I was taken over. It is one of my strongest food memories.

Later, I found out that curry is originally Indian and that colonialism was responsible for this black Jamaican woman knowing this dish, and I found out that she made it too thick, but, as with nearly all cherished childhood memories, I didn’t care. And while, from time to time, I get “fancy with it,” throwing in coconut milk or thinning it out (basically making it “properly”), no version, not even proper Indian curry, hits the spot the way her version does. I love it so much that every year, for my birthday celebration dinner, my mom makes this dish. And as it is still my birthday month, I am making it for my guests tomorrow: Jamaican Guest Chicken Curry. Prep done. Now, what in the world will I make for dessert. Are coconut dumplings a thing?

Chicken curry prep

Chicken curry prep

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A Kiki with Michael Sam

Michael Sam

Let’s Have A Kiki

“I’m sorry; did I answer your question right?” Michael Sam’s voice is not necessarily soft, nor is it smooth, but what it is, is respectful and earnest. This is at least the third time he has worried if his answers to my questions are correct. I, hoping to put him at ease, reply, “It is fine; just think of this as us having a kiki in a cafe.” Instantly Sam’s brow furrows; he briefly squints his eyes and asks, “A what?” The language is foreign to him. Again I reply, “A kiki. It is black gay slang for when friends get together to laugh and talk. Basically it’s shooting the shit.” His brow releases its wrinkles and he slightly smiles, “Oh; I thought you said ‘kinky.’ I was like, ‘what?’A ‘kiki?’ I have never heard of that?” The fact that he didn’t speak the language was not shocking to me; I had suspicions as to why but I wanted confirmation: “Don’t you have Black gay friends? Or are most of your friends straight? Or if they are gay are they…?” I thought better of finishing the question, but Sam answered, “Most of my friends are straight. I don’t have a lot of gay friends but I do have one really good transgender friend.”

Michael Sam had, unknowingly, confirmed all of my inner doubts about him, and he confirmed many of the criticisms of him and many out Black gay celebrities. Criticisms that maintain that Michael Sam and others like him are symbols of pride and progress precisely because they have such fragile ties to the Black queer community (or to Blackness in general except for confirming supposed Black pathology). They are the pieces of charcoal in Frosty’s white face that make him complete, the black top hat that brings his white body to life. Each one of them come to the media table with a story that confirms Black homophobia and the power of self-love, and each reach for their white lover, who becomes an avatar for whiteness. And, for many a Black queer boy, in that moment, the moment of the reach for the white hand, the fantasy reveals itself to be just that, a fantasy, a fraud, or, worse, a confirmation that healthy Black gay love is not loving another Black queer person.  

And, there is reason for this suspicion. If we turn to the world of imagination, sadly, it too fails us. We have a paucity of Black queer characters on television and film; so, often, when we see a Black queer character there is an initial moment of joy. A deep hope once again sprouts and we think, “Maybe this time will be different; maybe this time [we’ll] win,” but then we inevitably discover that our hope is misplaced. Often the Black queer is usually male and subordinate to other characters. If he is the center of an episode of television, he is often, though not always, on the DL.  If he is femme, he is often depicted as romantically and sexually undesirable and given little complexity. If he is “masc,” or simply “not femme,” he may have complexity, but his love life is always one constructed for the white gaze because he, visually coded as desirable, is almost always dating a non-Black character. It seems that even in the collective American imagination, Black queer folk loving other Black queer folk is too strange to comprehend.

Continue reading

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Questions in August 2014

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 

in the streets, with my thoughts in front of me

ten feet.

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be on 

a tree, swinging slowly, 

feet dangling?

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 

on a fence, scaring crows


            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be

in a class, my head across the glass as the

screen blinks/

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be

in a street, with my skirt and 

legs open?

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 

on a sidewalk, throat 

pulled in

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 


Or will they hide me

will they wise up and hide me?

            Will they find me? 

Where will I be when

they come for me 



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What I witnessed at the Ferguson Cleanup

A Poem

A Poem


Some of the folk out.

Some of the folk out.


He should have left the poem up

He should have left the poem up


Continued Cleanup

Continued Cleanup

Some of the bags

Some of the bags


That Moment When Lafayette Read The Nation

“Has it ever occurred to that I want a piece of happiness to. Lafayette that queen who makes you white heterosexuals feel happy? No.”

I am sure that the quote is not 100% accurate but forgive me because I was too busy screaming, “Speak my life!” It was not because it was such a great read, I mean it was an epic read, but I screamed because so many times in my queer black life I have been made to feel as if I am to exist solely for the pleasure of straight females, or the curiosity of straight white folk, or to teach straight black folk about gay and queer rights, to convince masculine gay guys that fem guys deserve more respect than we are given by our brothers, or to tell white gay folk why Sierra Mannie’s article deserves something better than a “Bye Felicia.” I have been made to feel this way and I refuse it; I struggle against it on a regular basis.

It becomes repetitive.

It becomes too familiar.

It makes you numb.

This can be exhausting.

So, when Lafayette said his speech he was not speaking only to Jessica, nor was he speaking for all gay folk; he couched his words in a rhetoric that acknowledged sexuality, race, and gender performance. He was speaking to so many of you about us.

We black femme queer bois and gurlz want that piece of happiness and we don’t exist for any of you.

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“Let’s Take A Long Walk…”

I hear the question every time I leave my house; I step onto a sidewalk and walk: one foot in front of the other, my hips unhinged, dropping in diagonal directions to the beat of whatever diva coos in my ear; I walk deliberately and with an awareness that each time I move, I do so to the rhythm of: Who… do… you… think… you… are?

I answer with my body: more than big, gargantuan, and soft, unmistakable. It should be unruly but I swing all my pounds gracefully, demanding space, commanding attention. I will not cower. I will not apologize.

I strut down city streets because I am not supposed to, because I can. I have paid the price; the ticket is in my pocket. I feel your brother’s eyes on my chest. I have felt eyes on my chest since I was a boy standing in midwestern high school hallways; I have felt the hands connected to those eyes of greedy sweaty pimple faced white boys who didn’t take “No!” as an answer. I fought the hands that reached past my “NO!” and grabbed my chest to preview what Friday night with their girlfriends would feel like. “Who do you think you are?”

I, the tank with a little sugar, slink down the avenue. I am searching for sweet potatoes. The big ones are the sweetest, their flesh the deepest orange. I, the tank with a little sugar, slink down the avenue for potatoes to boil in water and mash with butter and sugar and milk and spices. Sunday is soon and there will be pie. We took the pie with us to Angleterre; we left the pumpkin in Amérique. I slink toward the shucking of corn, toward buttered dough made soft by brown hands, toward a salty smoked bone placed in the freezer, toward ham fanned on a plate, toward tough greens made soft. I slink toward Sunday. I slink away from bruschetta and small bites, away from thinly sliced fish, away from fish that can swim out of its roll, away from crepes with Nutella. I slink away from Friday. I slink about this town gathering my mind. I slink South. I, the tank with a little sugar, slink to the buzzing of that hot question: “Who do you think you are?”

The question stabs me everyday when you, yes you, look at me. I close my eyes and see myself: A figure, large and black. My edges dissolve into the soft black shadows that ziggs and zaggs through the city, limitless. Those parts of me forever trailing away from me, forever infinite. But my core, that stands out against the brilliant white of the city. A city that glitters all around me, sounding like coins fighting each other as they cut through the air, falling but never reaching a floor. This American city that does not hunger for me. If it devoured me, it would vomit me up. But, I bite it, lick it, kiss it, tear at its flesh and swallow, and call it love.

“Who do you think you are?” I answer:

I am a “We.” “‘Who we be’?” We be screamers, dancers, singers, and dreamers. “‘Who we be’?” The children of the first hym and hir. The South’s forgotten ones. “‘Who we be’?” No one named Tom; we know no Jemimiah. We have no uncle named Ben. “‘Who we be’?” Sugar made hard, candy laced with testosterone. Who are you? Hungry little ones craving something sweet. “‘Who we be’?” Jawbreakers. Who are you? Little boy lost and little girl scared; children who ate the lady’s house and blamed her for wanting justice. Who are you? Just Jacks and Jills dropping the pail because you were busy trying to kiss. “‘Who we be’?” Stars fucking, knowing that “this nut might kill us,” still; we engage in that “revolutionary act.” We be not shadows but suns. All that heat you feel be us twerkin’. We be young. We be gifted. We be the song that bird sings.

“‘Who we be’?” The originators of you.
Who are you? Imitators of us.

I switch all through the fucking city––––– the whole fucking city.

*For my fellow black queer brothers and sisters. We stomp all over this town they call America.

(Contains references to Nina Simone, Maya Angelou, Essex Hemphill, Marlon Riggs, Jill Scott, and my Mother and Grandmother’s kitchens.)

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FBD: A Queer Thought

I said something to someone yesterday; something kind and honest to someone who was rarely honest with me and didn’t deserve any kindness from me; it may help him but I think I said it for me because it was the first time I voiced aloud my fundamental core belief about myself, what drives me:

“Nothing in my life tells me that I am lovable. I am not talking about deserving love, we can make arguments for that and it is easy to say ‘you deserve love’; no, I am saying that my experience, my life has taught me that outside of my family and close friends I am unlovable, in the romantic sense.The only man who has professed to love me did so while hurting me. My ‘experience’ tells me that I will not be loved and the world tells me that I should not be loved: I am fat; I am dark; I am a faggot to some; I am ugly to others; the world and experience tells me that this is not what love seeks. I am not what love seeks. If I take your position and go by my ‘experience,’ then I should give up.
But, I can’t; I won’t. I have to believe that I can be loved, that I may be loved, that I am beautiful, that I am human. I may never actually be loved, by this I mean in a healthy way; I may never have that ending with a guy by my side telling me that I am what he wants, but that is not the point. The point is that I have to believe that I may have that, that the chance may come for me too. I have to believe in more than just my experience because my experience is so small, so narrow; it has been so short. I have to believe because it keeps me going, keeps me strong. I believe because not to is to give up and say to the world, ‘You win’ and I don’t know how to do that. So I say, fuck experience, believe that you can have, that you deserve more than what experience has taught you.”


I want a disruption, a commotion,

an explosion.

Sing out loud in the restaurant,

sing out loud in the library,

sing out loud in the lecture hall.

And scream

at the house,

at the green grass,

at my car parked on the curb in front of the plastic mailbox,

scream till blood runs

and coats my throat;

scream that this suburban life is killing me.

I had a dream

that one day I would be fucking

beautiful, in NYC,

and setting the sidewalk aflame with my sashay. I had a dream


And it exploded in my mind.

And it exploded in my mouth.

And it exploded in my hand.

I have no dream.

Only a deep aching need,

for disruption

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