Midnight Hero

This is a piece inspired by what I’ve learned about Art, Artists, and Artist’s lives, this summer in my Art History 111 class-Renaissance to Modernism. Class will be finished in 8 days. Home stretch.

Midnight Hero

This ain’t no place for a midnight hero. You pull your promise punch me on the bottom left lip so when I kiss heryoumeushim it will hurt. I will hurt you for this broken fallacy fantasy. Rely on nothing but Gods-Natures to see you through this maced laced window draped tomb of earthly heaven. Hey, there is green blue glitter. Gold grey silver.
Music. Movement.

Move out the way of The Way WE LOVE. This ain’t your business. Go. Dizzy disco is a go go go gone gone so far too far, so long..you don’t know
soft lips, steady hips, gorgeous brown eyes, perfectly perfect first times, sleep no sleep, generous nights…

Go. Get gone.

(They ain’t never coming back.)

Mo(u)rning is bullshit. Light too furry blurry bright for me to deal with oceans blue be murky yellow beer brown true blended sky be rolling around laughing loud, rung Out, left hard drying, farting in the distance, in high relief, near a single grime shined flower and this: The reason summer fails Spring.

Falls through, mercury me wants to be mercury Free lens. Clear Fresh. New Now Next. But I will never be clean (again).

I am dirty glass with desire, cotton candy pink fire, stained mahogany if you tease me please release me, though I cannot promise you a devil damned darn thing this ready made dream seen too many holes in your..sorry story:

In this concentric circle, a one off: “Burned Blue-Black Stick Stink *verses* Slick Stone Faux Fox Minx! Come and get whatever you think you deserve.
You really think I can…?
I think you ’cause I can. Because you let me.

Zero. Ain’t no hero here baby, ain’t no AngEl angling here either in the aEther. I’ve been straight aiming straight fo’ ya. Fancy Yay Gay voyeur dancing, prancing with the stars.

+ You Two! Struck, stuck, stupid to move out the way, ya’ll gon’ fucking pay: $weet Fair-hormones minus Rock candy-coated Tear$
=
Rough salty salt, rubbing raw, on me. Use us. Use less

mess makes less throw aways when it’s all the way over. Roll over,

when all has been done and all I’ve said is enough to part sheets, feets, and cheeks with swinging samurai swords. Rage on! Bleed!

Because that is what bitch ass mama punk fairy pirate panty stealing mystic reeling papa Marys do. Bleed because bleeding is free. Bleeding is fucking free(ing). Ring ring! Here, I am

present, an everyday, every jewel toned ring. Center splint. Simper. Crawl. Kneel. Marry your mama fool. Do it. After All,She is First True Love.

You Holy Magnificent Bastard
fuck up fuck grind ground down fuck deep like this that way there, now baby, again oooh, I put my hands up! Busted smile reaches your gut. Sharp and Twisted. A little lot little. Die! Easy darling, easy. See me see you see me see you kissed bruised ego. YOU ARE NOT A HERO. You are nothing. You’re no(thing) at all. You are Mine. You are Mine. All Mine. All. Mine. 00:00

Where I Have Been Hurt The Most

To get over the wounds of childhood…
The most wounding thing I experienced was the continual dismissal and trivialization of my feelings and thoughts. I talked too much when I was little. I was told at a young age, 7 perhaps, that I only talked to hear the sound of my own voice. I loved the sound of my own voice. At that moment I stopped. I stopped loving in a way. Not only the sound of my own voice but the person who told me that. I started to become a stranger to myself. I started to hate. Though I didn’t know it at the time. I recognize the feeling now. I felt trapped, and frustrated. Imprisoned in my surroundings. Home was not a safe place. My voice dried up. And sometimes, still today, I find it gone. I think I am speaking loud enough to be heard. I am asking a question. I am ordering something and the person I am talking to says they cannot hear me. Speak up. I feel insecure and it is an effort to produce the required volume. Is it the hormones? Is it voice changes? A lot of guys tell me they have to relearn how to project. I think to myself whenever I am not heard clearly, is it worth repeating? The energy of repeating. Am I invisible? Why must I speak louder? Are you listening at all?

I live from the perspective of a survivor. The survivor and the victim are sometimes confused with one another. Childhood is where I learned oppression, humiliation, that I had no value other than the ability to parrot back information I learned in school. I learned I was heartless and queer because I didn’t love my mother like other kids loved their mothers. I wasn’t attached or even interested. I would’ve been happier away from her. Though the irony is, if she had left me completely at a young age, say 2 or 8 or anytime really, I would always be seeking her out. I would long for her. I know this. I would want what I never had. It is better this way. To have lived with her and lived through it. I don’t have to wonder or dream or mourn any lost time. We had our time. I want to leave it there but it keeps coming up.

Working with kids and taking Child Development classes, reading Young Adult Fiction, discussing our childhoods and parents, it is always up. I sifted through my childhood in my late teens and early twenties. I forgave my parents long ago. They did the best they knew how. They didn’t mean to hurt me. They didn’t know they did. What I am dealing with now are the dreams I had as a kid, I want to live out. The desire to tell stories. To make films will tip me over into another life. My first poem I wrote, my mother said, “you sure are dramatic”. I felt dismissed. Like I didn’t matter. I was sharing and reaching out and I was hurting. I didn’t show her any more of my writing for 7 years. What else would I have wanted her to say? When I travel back to that time and she says it, says, “you sure are dramatic.”, I look to her. I say Yes. I beam.

To live the life I dreamed for myself as a kid, an artist life, a creative life. A creator’s life is all that I can do to make peace with those 15-16 years I spent living with my parents. Transitioning and living my life as a man, a beautiful man as some of my women friends say, is entirely unexpected. I didn’t plan or dream this when I was a kid. I couldn’t imagine this. It’s a bit trippy. I feel more authentic and free inside. I feel fresh. I look at myself in the mirror and smile. I feel brave and like the result of some great joke. I deal with stupid stuff sometimes and things I can’t explain in words yet or don’t want to share yet but for the most part it is one of the best things that I have ever done in my life. I thought I couldn’t be myself and live in this world. I was wrong. The thing is, there are still dreams I had as kid that have not been realized yet. I haven’t made a feature film. I haven’t written a children’s book. I need to do these things. I need to get them out of my head and into physical reality. No one can do this for me but if you’re reading this maybe you could send me some encouragement through the ether, a thought, a comment, a prayer.

*note:
This was originally written and published in December, 2010. It came up randomly today and I read it and wanted to share.