FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SOMEONE TELL ME WHO THIS GUY IS
Russell Howard is a national treasure.
u just gotta hav ur hand on ur boob sometimes
for so long,
but the men in my life
spill from my mouth
And the women—
The women get stuck in my throat.
Almost like I have to be selfish with them
to be allowed to love them.
Like I have to swallow them whole.
Keep their kisses to myself.
Like I am not made of messy contradictions
They run so deep through my veins,
pens aren’t enough
to dig them out.
Meanwhile, the boys who hurt me
keep tumbling from my open chest—
I can’t stop talking about them.
I can’t write about women.
When I try, my hands clam up,
my heart bludgeons in my chest,
my bravery gives way to cowardice.
I have tried writing about women
for so long,
and yet half the time
I don’t have the courage
|—||I AM, I AM, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)|
The old woman on the corner stops me on my way to work.
She has eyes like fog lights in the middle of the rain
and smiles like someone with secrets.
The old woman knows me better than I do.
The old woman asks what I’m so afraid of.
Truth is, I tell her,
the storm that hung back all winter finally
rolled into the space beneath my ribs and I
am shouting thunderclaps from my mouth
just to stop the water level rising.
I’m still chasing a ghost and I will never be proud of that.
I know what you’re thinking, but
boys with the sky in their lungs are bad for you,
and I’d been shotgunning ozone off his kisses so long,
I forgot how to breathe.
you can listen to your heart,
but you can’t lead with it.
And I think I’ve spent my whole life
with my heart out in front of me.
I tell her,
he was all pebbled clouds
and spoonfuls of starlight.
I tell her,
I loved him and I was so afraid.
She holds my hand so softly, and smiles
one step at a time
like a roadmap unfolding.
The fear is good, little lightningstorm,
The fear is good.
|—||LITTLE LIGHTNINGSTORM, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)|
right around when I started college
during a time when
nothing really made sense
and I was looking for a place
to call home.
I know what it is.
It know it’s a word with
skeletons in it’s closet.
A word with a past.
Queer is a word with a body count.
And we took it back.
Because queer was a word they threw
along with their fists
when they wanted it to hurt.
And we smiled back,
bruised knuckles, split lips,
"Come and take it."
Queer loved us
when our fathers looked through us
and talked about grandchildren
we didn’t know if we’d ever be able
Queer loved us when the law
said we didn’t have the right
to love each other.
Queer loved us when the townsfolk
were setting their fires
and sharpening their pitchforks.
I won’t ask for a show of hands.
I know it’s not safe for some of us.
But I’ll extend my hand to you.
I use this word to stand for love
after all the years it was used to hate.
I use it, because it saved me:
a word like heavy rainfall
on a crop dying of thirst.
I made the word queer a part of me
during a time when no other word
seemed to fit right,
and it’s still the warm hearth I come home to,
and if that’s not revolution,
I don’t know what is.
Because to me,
Because if queer can save
that lost little kid
then maybe there’s hope for the ones
who are let down by their parents,
beat up by their peers.
I have to believe that this word can do better.
Because it’s been causing harm for too many years.
|—||THE “Q” WORD, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)|
Patrick Roche - “Couples Therapy” (NPS 2014)
"Every thursday, I go to couples therapy with my depression. He whispers in my ear to stay in bed for another day, presses his palm into my chest, afraid I’m going to escape the covers."
Performing during the Button Showcase at the 2014 National Poetry Slam.
A man feeding swans and ducks from a snowy river bank in Krakow
the contrast is insane
relevant to my interests