three dates.

He had three first names and a blazer, and ate pasta at coffee. His eyes were bright but not colored, brown but not dull, and his humor was sharp and immediate. I liked him. Date two we had conversation over mushroom cheese risotto and I started letting my insecurities show. But the chemistry was undeniably kinetic and I have never been shy with words, so I said so; used words like: Excited. Impressed. Potential; touched knees, held hands, and kissed. We talked of needs and dreams and archetypes; and again I mentioned faith . . . and he mentioned how he knew my pastor, was close friends with the founder of my church, and had a deep and profound connection to God. And I breathed deeply. . . I smiled fully . . . and began to tingle inside. The dessert was hot chocolate soufflé: Intimate, delicate, and sensual; fingers and tongue touching and licking the curves and bends of chocolate silk. It was delicious. Date three we talked of sex (after sharing a glass of Milk); we spoke of exes and role play, of dildoes and status, of condoms and hickeys, and how long we are willing to wait. We discussed self respect and integrity; and the integration of sex and love. He told me clearly that he likes me and that he looks forward to what’s in store. We haven’t had date four yet, and who know if we ever will. The dating world is unpredictable, and signs are often misread. But there is a message from him on my service, as there has been one almost every day since we met. He has three first names and a blazer, with brown hair that always looks blond. He’s confident in a way that’s almost cocky, with the introspective monologue of an only child. He likes me and I like him, but who knows where we will go from there.

My God!

My God is an Awesome God; and He Loves Me more than I'm Worth.

The Number 31

I have animosity towards The Number 31. I don’t think we get along. Every time he sits across from me with his Prada glasses, and anti-theology of casual partnership, I find him unattractive. I mean he’s cute and all, but I just don’t think we match. He calls biting and degrading humor funny, and freely sprinkles “friendly” conversation with Bitch, Fuck, and Cunt; hitting me with the blunt force trauma of his experience. . .or lack there of. I'm reminded of The Number 17. I could tell stories that would boggle his mind and quickly make his jaw drop, but I don’t want to shatter his fragile existence so I keep my mouth shut. Though The Number 31 and I are the same, we have very little in common. I'm more comfortable with Numbers 42 or 46 but then again I can’t really afford to skip ahead ten years . . . so I find myself in a perilous predicament of trying to balance an equation that starts from a false premise of equality. So either I stop judging The Number 31 so harshly, or be prepared to continuously fall short of achieving The Number 41.

Something...

Something clicked today.
There was a shift in focus
and now everything is different.

Gay and Christian: A Very Good Question...

This is a public posting of a private letter sent to a Dear friend in response to a very good question:

"What is your opinion about being Gay and Christian; and how do you respond when some are convinced that the bible is clear about homosexuality being a very serious sin?"

This is a very difficult discussion because there is no definitive argument in any direction. People can throw scriptures at each other all day. However, how receptive they are to a "new interpretation" arguing the validity of Gay Christians just depends on what they believe about the bible.

I believe that the bible is progressive (or in biblical terms "Living"); it continues to evolve and change through the ages based on what is needed by those who read it (so I being gay, black, diseased, poor, and raised an only child, means I resonate very differently with it than someone who is not those things, but other things). I believe that is the beauty of the bible.

I believe that the New Testament is More important that the Old (which is why Christians are called Christian). Jesus very clearly says that the OLD laws are fulfilled through him, and no longer necessary for us. The only two "new" laws are: love God, and Love others as yourself (So that gets rid of most, if not all of the anti- "homosexual" references in Leviticus and all other Old Testament scriptures). And if you Love Others as you love yourself, this conversation would be over (because we would be all trying to help each OTHER win the same rights WE have, and always trying to include, rather than exclude). And since Jesus Himself never spoke about homosexuality at all, but spoke heavily about judgment, and lying, and gossip, and hypocrisy, and pride, and money, and old outdated traditions, and throwing stones. . . I would imagine that "if" it is a sin, it could not be more of a sin than any of those things that he spent far more energy on; and that we are ALL guilty of.

So since we may never agree on who's interpretation is "right", or if it's a "sin" or not, this is what I rely on personally. Jesus came to save us from our sin, and since we are all sinners, we can all be saved. I am a sinner. Jesus came to save me. I believe, so I am saved. No one is perfect, and God does not require us to be.

Jesus WELCOMED everyone . . . Even at a time when it was unacceptable to do so, when it was against the laws of the Old Testament. (Which are God's Laws…) He welcomed women, Slaves, prostitutes (both male and female), he grew to welcome even non believers (non Jews and pagans), he welcomed the outcast and the discarded (everyone except the rich), and I think that through time as more groups became known, he would have welcomed them (us) too.

It comes down to this: John 3:16 "God so Loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that WHOSOEVER believes in him shall not perish but have ever lasting life". Either you believe THAT or you don't... Either you believe that GOD can LOVE that much or you don't.

Psychologically I just think its hard for people to accept the graciousness of God, and they think that we have to somehow "Earn" our way into salvation by being "good" (God says there is no one Good but him... and that there is not one that is worthy) so we try to measure ourselves against each other, in hopes that if we can somehow be better than those horrible people, then we will be saved ... when in truth, those "horrible people" are saved too (because they are saying the same thing about you).

Max 10 Performance: Construction of MInd

Construction of Mind

Center Stage: Ego
As God

I am the substance of Ego.
I am the construction of Mind.
I am Presence made manifest into Flesh.
I am the culmination of Creation.
I am a Fragment of God.
And I think you are beautiful.

Upstage Left: “It’s Not True”
Start with Mumbles and Darkness and Madness and Screams…
NO!!!!! I'm Broken, and Lost, and Ugly, and Flawed. And this is Hard

Center Stage: The Now
Play with Presence, Breath, and the Performance.

This is it. This is the moment. This is the culmination of tears and prayers and hopes and failures and joys. This is a fragment of something infinitely eternal contained and protected by this fragile thing we call a soul. This is mine. This is my place. These are my gifts. This is the manifestation of years of chaos and shit (reference upstage left) distilled into something I am able to control. This is my story. This is my dirge. This is my drug addicted love song. This is the delicate dance of the devil and deity made irrefutably real by the sacrifice of blood and laughter. This is my blood. This is my laughter. This is God

Transitions: Connected
Upstage Left Very authentic and personable.

“I am Flawed” She said (She, being me; me, being the imaginary version of you). Did you get that? Did you get how quickly I get convoluted? How fast it can get Lost? How easily I presume to know what you are thinking, and how instantaneously I begin to think that you and I are the same. Someone once told me that everyone was connected. That at the core of our fundamental design we were all one; And that in order to love you. I would have to first love me, and in loving me, I would be loving God, because we are made in the image of God . . . and then he said something even more remarkable. He told me I was Beautiful. . .Evoke the emotions of being made love to: Sensual, intimate, and good, until you are arms open and accepting (almost like a cross)

Sing “Amazing Grace”
Walk Upstage Left and remove pants as you awaken into your sexuality.

Upstage Right: Grandma
Play with sexuality, innocence, humor, reverence, and caricature.

The one thing you probably don’t know about my grandmother, is that she was a black woman. Well may be you would know that. . . Let me put this way. She was an old black woman from Mississippi that sang Negro spirituals and ate watermelon in her rocking chair. Better? Yes. That was my grandmother. She was ball headed and wise; and when she wasn’t wearing her Sundays finest at church she walked around the house in just a shirt that went down to her knees, and told stories about the olden days. She was beautiful in way that has absolutely nothing to do with the physical. She was the mother Mary in the flesh. And when she would sing it was like God himself stepped in the room. And she loved my laugh. She would tell me “baby your laugh makes me eager to enter heaven, because I know when I get there, that’s how the Angels are gonna sounds.” And when I would dress like her in a shirt that went to my knees she would say. “Boy you sure got some Pretty legs! I could just eat them up!” And Of course I would laugh. I loved her. . . And she loved me… But you do know what I my most vivid memory of her is? It’s the Day she told me I had the devil in me. Take off Shirt fold in ritual of remembrance and place reverently with the pants while humming “amazing grace”.

Upstage Left: Life
Acknowledging that you stand in the Brokenness of the Past

We remember the wrong things and forget the most important part. We focus on the broken pieces of the past and ignore the powerful progression of the whole and in doing so we missed the point of the story. Life is Drama and comedy and Tragedy and Romance and Joy; Angels and Demons; Good, Bad, Heaven and Hell. It is The “I Love You’s” and The “Fuck You’s”. Life is a spectrum of the complexity of God, designed to make you see past the minutia of the moment (reference the energy of upstage left) and point you to the deeper truth. (Reference yourself)
Remove underwear as the final peeling of self Judgment and shame.

Center Stage: Beautiful
Recognize your beauty as Corey

I am the substance of Ego.
I am the construction of Mind.
I am Presence made manifest into Flesh.
I am the culmination of Creation.
I am a Fragment of God.
And I am beautiful.

Ego: False Self (Part 2)

These are the things of ego. These are the constructions of form. These are the superficial particulars that represent my external perceptions of self. These are the lies I tell myself to help me feel more real; to help me see myself the way I want to be seen, because in truth we are more vast than we could ever conceive; so this is a way to make me smaller, more precise, more defined; as someone once said: "Like a pristine polished Christmas ornament" beautiful and made to be adored. Adore me!!! I scream it in the timbre of my laugh, in the affection of my touch, in the meanderings of my intellect, in the overflowing of my honesty, in the way I quantify God, and in those I choose to date. The reverberations of my need echoes in the voices of those I allow to call me "baby", and in the eyes of the preciouse few I attempt to call friends. I surround myself with mirrors; edifying pieces of the finest crystal that reflect my perfect sense of false self.

I am God, but I do not know it. I am presence manifested in the flesh, but I cannot feel it. I am the totality of creation, but I cannot get past what I was. I am the culmination of a tragic chronological compilation that now calls himself "Beautiful", and is terrified to be seen as anything other than that, so I hide my track marks with Tiffany bracelets, burry my former homelessness below beautiful hardwood floors, and obfuscate the nights of being everybody's whore with genteel gentlemen who treat me like a queen. I have been reborn into this . . . And though painted with a brush of enlightenment, supported with biblical scripture, easily referenced with something that Oprah said, and flowered from the deep toiling of higher thinking, it is still ego; still vanity; still a limitation of the whole, and (Borrowing on the philosophical writings of "The New Earth") still a part of me that "needs" to be. . . The part of my fleeting unconscious that fights to be recognized, acknowledged, and validated.

But Truth needs no validation. . . So perhaps I am not being truthful. Perhaps my authenticity is limited by my ability to only be cognizant of the linear perceptions of an unperceivable self; and all the nouns and adjectives and metaphors and allusions and theories and intense metaphysical dialogues that I use to define myself are not me at all, but who I want to be; and consequentially who I force you to tell me I am if you choose to love me. If I let you love me. . .

Love me.
Adore me.
Top me.
Drive me.
Pay my way.
Open my door.
Pray to my God.
Tell Me I'm Beautiful.
Tell Me I'm Brilliant.
Read this List of Books.
Be Smart.
Be Successful.
Be Perfect.
Be White.

These are the requests of my wounded psyche, made to souls that share my space; needed to make me feel more full. But if I am abundant and fundamentally the equivalent of all, then they are merely mitigating mental techniques set up to make me feel special; Unique; Different from everyone else, and separate from the omnipotence consciousness of God. It is time for the Walls of Jericho to come down, and for the protective partitions to fall way. It's time to pay your on way. It's time for you to be your own man. It's time to stand in the presence of who you "actually" are; without labels, descriptors, or qualifying characteristics. It's time to let the ego step aside and to stop choosing men based on their ability to make you feel better about who you are, but rather based on the fundamental question of: Do they make you FEEL?

Ego: Or So They Say (Part 1)

I pride myself on my honesty and my capacity to acknowledge my flaws. I also recognize the possibility for beauty to manifest itself by moving through the cracks of an imperfect veneer. And though in most cases I think that we have very little say in which lessons life lays out for us to learn, I am a huge advocate of the notion that one cannot move forward without taking inventory of where he's been; otherwise repetition becomes the norm and evolution becomes stunted. Or so they say.

I've been re-reading "A New Earth", Re-investing in understanding what brought on my disquiet, and analyzing exactly what it was that I did wrong. (While being cognizant that the concept of wrong is merely a perspective on an ideological position) This is what I've come up with:

The last time I read "A New Earth" I was struggling with my constructs of the external world; trying to lessen my need to fragment and judge institutions of Love, Marriage, Religion, and Romantic Relationships, so that my mental picture did not dominate the overall collage (That when seen as a whole is complex, layered, and ultimately a unitary image of one idea). And it changed me. Gave me the opportunity to step back, relax, and breathe into the moment without fearing that the converging differences would somehow diminish who I was. I was strengthened in who I was and yet made gentler on the world around me. For those of you who have read "A New Earth" you may have already caught the trap that I fell into. "I was strengthened in who I was"

I found a Beautiful Man who loved me for exactly who I was, I became increasingly at ease with my personally integrity, and more a more comfortable with sharing realities with those with a different world view; and because all was "in the moment" I found that a choice that had no linear consequence could not deny me access to alternate futures. I was safe. I didn't have to fight so hard. I became confident that I would continue to exist, that I would still be heard, and that I would still find love; even if it was called by a different name. I let it go. Knowing that however you chose to define the world had no bearing on me. And we could still share the moment. We could be we, while I was still completely me. But now what? What about this now? What about today? Alone again and aware that I have no idea where each date will lead, and with only the subtle understanding that the last year of "momentous" living left me here. . . searching for connection again. What is the same? What baggage remains tied to my thigh leaving me unable to leap freely into the next love story?

Answer:

I am still obsessed with form. I am still caught up in the presentation of an ideal; MY ideal. ME. The construction of my personal identity has become impenetrable diamond; beautiful, sparkling, and unbreakable. Yet still not real; a perfectly designed illusion of self . . . but in all actuality just a construction of the Ego. Or so they say. . .

The Paradox of Authenticity

The problem I'm having with honesty is that it’s so easy to manipulate.

Any good actor knows how to me authentic…
I mean, that’s how you know you are good.

Just ask Oprah or Angelina Jolie.

I bet Gandhi would have been BRILLIANT with a script.

Eulogy: A Writing Project.

Corey was Beautiful and he believed you were beautiful; and he took every opportunity to tell you so. A free spirit with boundless ability to access joy, his laughter was his greatest achievement. He was a talented writer, performer, and activist, but he was mostly a human being; keenly aware of his flaws and short comings. . .but he loved; and he was loved, and through that he found his salvation. So today we do not mention death, but say that he has transcended, for. . . “God is Love. And he that lives in love lives in God, and He in him.”

The Truth. . .

“I hadn’t said a word that was a lie, but I should have lied. The truth was wrong, it would hurt him. I would let him down.”

Stephenie Meyer, “New Moon”

Gentle Armor

He called me intellectually exhausting. They’ve called me physically intimidating and spiritually overwhelming. I'm slowly starting to realize that those are not necessarily compliments, and that though said in awe and with smiles of genuine affection; they are really polite observations of the most obvious detriments to my character. It is as if the kink in the armor is the armor itself. It is because I choose to hide behind spirit and thought and flesh; things that in their purest form are supposed to be liquid and natural, that my attempts to control the mutable and free flowing, perverts them into something hard and garish; so that where I am peaceful, compromising, and accepting, I am also dogmatic, argumentative, and affected. It poses a unique challenge. How do I use Love to find Love when Love is not meant to be used?

How do I entwine myself with beauty and seek to imbue all aspects of my life with it, when Beauty by definition must be innate; and the manipulation of it only makes it less so? How do I let everyone know that I am brilliant, righteous, and talented, if I don’t take every opportunity to tell them so? It’s as if I'm always trying to prove something that I should already know to be true.

“Corey you know it to be true, don’t you? Or is that why you need a reminder tattooed down your arm? Is it such a deep seeded unconscious insecurity that it forces God to send so many to tell you to your face? Perhaps it is no coincidence that validation is constantly given. Is it because without it you wouldn’t know? Corey you do know, don’t you? Don’t you?”

He tells me that I'm Beautiful. They tell me that my thoughts leave them reeling, and that my spirit is a beaming bright violet white light that shines for all to see. But we hear what we want to hear . . . We believe the bad before the good . . . We unravel at the seams if a single thread is pulled . . . But my fringes have always been frayed. I’ve always been too fragile for my own good. I’ve always cared a bit too much – or at least that’s what I told myself as the lead consultant on my beautification campaign. So perhaps it’s time I drop the armor and let my thoughts become my own; let my faith become simply personal, and my body less maintained. That should make me less exhausting, less intimidating, and less likely to overwhelm. After all I just want to connect. I want to be Everyman. I want to be you, and let you be me for a time, because someone once told me that we were all one; which means we have the capacity to understand. That’s why I try so hard. But my attempts at being approachable and transparent get convoluted with high ideals. I need to have a quieter internal world, a more even mass appeal, and not so quickly bombard people with questions of Devine Design

Kennedy and King.

What is so horribly wrong with Hope? What’s so terribly awful about wanting to be better than we were before? Is saving $20 in taxes really that Important? Are we that afraid of Change? Are we really so concerned with tradition that we are unable to consider the progression of thought? Obama is the candidate of Ideals; the candidate of Intellect; and the candidate that moves the Heart. And just in case you didn’t know, I'm with him. I'm with the guy who evokes the energy of Kennedy and King. I'm with the guy who speaks of Moral responsibility and the magic of the American dreams. I'm with the one who is aligned with Oprah, higher consciousness, and the optimism of our youth. I'm with that one. Palin and McCain are the practical party obsessed with money, social conservatism, and economic growth. They are by no means bad people, just aligned with different things. They are the party of guns, war, and the Ku Klux Klan. They are the avatars of the eleven Southern Slave States, of Billion Dollar Business, and Economic Self-interest; or in other words, racism, corruption, and greed. Why would you vote for that? Why would that call to your soul? Why would you choose that, when Barack Obama is the manifestation United Destiny, Social Equality, and the Promise of Progressive Change? Help me understand that; because I just don’t get it.

Mathew 7:1

I define things too harshly.
I see everything as either Perfect or not;
Brilliant or not;
This or That;
Wrong or Right . . .
I need a gentler perspective.

But at least I think Everything and Everyone is
Beautiful . . .
It is my only saving Grace.

Dating Again. . .

I'm scared that they won’t be as doting as he was. That they won’t say yes as quickly as he did; and that they won’t be as willing to see past the bulking muscles and dominant spirit, to gently call me “princess” when I'm not feeling so strong. I'm terrified that they won’t look at me the way that he did; like I was special, preciouse, and undeniably worth it. I pause to think that they won’t be so gladly willing to take on the financial burden of someone unable to pay their share; and that they won’t be as freely generous as he was. I worry that they won’t always let me play bottom and offer to make me moan with intimate pleasure on those nights when I don’t want to feel alone. I'm nervous that he’s possibly better than I’ll ever get; and that I passed on everything I’ve ever wanted, in order to find something that I think I need. So now I'm scared. I want to have what I had, but more. I want them to be like him, but different. The same, but not exactly. I want them to simply say they love me even when I'm being difficult, and to just listen when I'm desperate to make a point. I want to offer them something that only I can give, and earn immense joy finding out exactly what that is. And yes I still want them to go to church with me . . . such a simple request but surprisingly hard to find. I'm dating again. It’s not something I like to do, just a necessary evil that leads me to the end result. I'm searching again, hoping again, playing again, and looking for love again. Luckily there are many options out there, and many suitors willing to try; and though I know my fears are unfounded, and that every love is greater than the last; in the back of my mind I wonder if the price I’ll pay for giving him up, will be to loose the things that he gave.

Need

I get jealous sometimes at how very little some people need from this world. At how easily they are satisfied, and how their thoughts never linger on the .001 percent of epic mundane-ities that constantly cross my mind. Like what about the substance of soul or the consequence of Judas? Or what is it with the color red, and why do some people not see it? Why do I think the way that I do, and you think the way you do; and are there more choices than just our two? If God is Love, and God is Good, then all Love is Good . . . right? But what about obsessive love, like the way my dad loved my mom; with fist and split lips, is that good too? Or is that not love? But if some loves are not love, then why do they feel the same? And why can't I find either anymore?

I see them laughing with their perfect teeth, their perfect bodies, and their perfect matching partners, and I covet what they have. I want to steal their joy. I want to be them someday. Even though their sex is bad, they do not speak, and one of them is destined for suicide, they've made it work. They look the part; with their matching rings, frosted tips, and three hundred dollar shoes; they are public royalty, and I want that… I want the condescending smile. I want the impressive bank account. I want to think that that's enough.

I sometimes on occasion wish that I was more quickly pleased by their pretty words and promises. I wish that every once in a while dark skinned brown eyed Persian men with breathy names and beat up pick up trucks made me lose my senses and ignore the fact that sexuality is more than just behavior; and that their heterosexuality will never make them mine, but only lead to my demise. I wish that beautiful bald German men wielding diminutive statures and masculine ways who kissed like perfect dancers; all Rond de jambes and Pliés; Pirouettes and jetés, and with bodies rippled like chiseled pale pearl marble (but who are only here for three weeks), made me forget the meaning of time and not care about the day after. On my weaker days I just want to give head to the cable guy; I just wanna get fucked for fun. But most often then not, I don't know what to do when strangers ask for favors that only lovers are meant to give. I freeze; I laugh in their faces, and become a moral prude. I think I too quickly call them whores, too quickly judge their character by what they do with their flesh. Because you see I use to be them, I use to play the game better than most; using my sex to ease my loneliness, and hoping that standing on one night would be enough. That price charming would find me after fucking me on the backroom floor, and finally love me the way I had always hoped.

But they find it; those boys who hold hands down the blvd, and tell stories over martinis. They know a freedom I have yet to find, and live a life so full that I wonder if I am actually living at all. So what if they're not happy or hate the contents of their soul? It would be worth it to have them look at me that way: as if I'm perfect and beautiful, and something to be devoured. I want to see hunger in their eyes, and taste despair upon their lips; fettered and rank, until it smells of desperation, and the aroma of our passion makes us sick with repetition, and we feed on one another until there is nothing left to give; nothing sacred left to save, and we are nothing but social politics gone awry. I'm jealous of those forty somethings who can wake up on satin sheets with a dead body by their side; kiss it gently on the lips, caress its phallus one last time, and quickly flee the scene because they can't recall its name. I want to be that body; oiled and well used, open to what will come; not hung up on the details of who, what, when, and why, but willing to be broken, burned, and offered as free food for the flies.

Irrelevant.

You get so caught up in the superficial, that you lose sight of what's real.
I am what you asked for; born of your prayers and tears.
I am what poets write about; what sonnets and epics were for.
I am that beautiful thing, that fleeting touch, and that kiss upon the wind.
I am the love of fiction put into physical form.
I am what philosophers dream: honest, emotionally available, and self assured.
I was the one who would have loved you.

That was me. I was that guy. Perhaps next time you'll see me.

Flapping Of Wings

This is my passive aggressive apology to no one in particular, to try to make amends for doing things I didn’t do. This is my chance to practice peace instead of pretending to be strong. This is me trying to listen to the silence that screams from deep within, as I learn lessons from the prophets that will wash my karma clean like sage born from the breath of sages. This is how I hope to break down the ego form; by building bridges to the past where all grievances are lost in the eternal presence of the now. Future is only theory so we will not think to that. Evolution. This is me being better than I am naturally, and proof that I am older than I was the year before. This is my Mumbo Jumbo Vodum prayer played to a samba beat; a metaphysical spoken word publicly composed of private thoughts meant just for a special few. Her and Him and Him and Her and the one I’m yet to know. I loved you once and love you still, which is the way that word works. But I’m moving on and letting go, and calling you back . . . and hoping you will do the same. I’ve dreamt of you a lot; all bejeweled and four eyed, with your hair done up in a bun; all beautiful and plain, like the girl next door on some exotic tropic isle. I’ve seen you three seats in front of me on the bus smiling brightly like a child, and at Starbucks buying a Venti caramel blended cappuccino, and yesterday I swore you were lost looking for directions in my neighborhood. But it’s never you. It wasn’t you. And I promise who you saw wasn’t me. I don’t really know what I’m saying but I felt it needed to be said. This is my purging of the spirit, my flapping of my wings; this is me calling in the wilderness and my paperback wisdom reprise. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I am flawed. Sometimes I lose my way. I’m bending my will to be broken so that there will be peace within the pieces. Such a small little thing to do, with no real meaning to find, but it’s done and I did it, and I feel good inside.

Mississippi Dreams

I dreamt of family last night. Under welcome and scrutiny I had a love affair with a cousin of mine. But he wound up being straight while I was still gay, so he decided to do me wrong to get out of it. I almost beat his ass before we made amends. You see I'm manlier in my dreams; more touched by violence and circumstance; an around the way Nigga that won’t back down, and who’s always willing to throw down.

But it was my aunt who had surprised me most, my fierce and beautiful aunty Ann, the co-matriarch of the clan; a Mississippi woman from souls to brow, who is spiritually conservative, stoic, and proud. The second sister of seven vicious no nonsense bitches. She’d beat me once for sucking dick . . . but last night she welcomed me home anew with a peaceful power I’ve come to recognize as the strength behind my mother’s eyes.

She was my aunt but not
My mother but not quite
A sweet feminine divinity
Made real by memories that stepped in to play the role of someone I thought I knew
In that weird way that dreams do.

But this was the part I thought was prophecy.

This aunty dream lady introduced me to my other cousin Shawn, who I haven’t seen since my teenage years. In the real world this is still her son but they’re not currently getting along too well. Now Shawn is studying to be a doctor, but the dream seems to think he should wear a mechanic’s jump suit; blue and soiled, and unbuttoned down the front; humble and strong like the ones my grandpa use to wear.

We hugged all shy and nervous like, but he shivered when I touched him.
He smiled and I smiled too.
I said “If I’d saw you on the street I would not have recognized you”
He shrugged and said “I'm Conrad’s boy”
I agreed “You look just like him”

Conrad died ages ago
The brother of a man who had beat my Mom for years.
Why he’d want to look like him I’d never know.
But I guess some people love their Dads
I was not so lucky. . .
He loved the fact that he looked like his
And he cried when I told him so.
And as an aside,
Or a thank you,
Or simply fortune’s speaking voice,
He told me to check my “BASEBALL CARDS”.

Now the dream assumed that we collected together; warm fuzzy pseudo-memories of buying dollar bags of “Upper Deck” on warm clear Saturdays. And the sheer fact that I know the name of the company proves we must have collected for a time. But during waking hours I can’t imagine that that could have ever been me. Was there a time before my sexuality? Was I ever that much of an average boy? Was this Mississippi boy once really just a “Mississippi Boy”; on a baseball team and in the Cub Scouts and throwing rocks at bee hives for fun? Something tells me this was more than just a dream, and that somewhere there’s a baseball card that needs to be found that’s worth more than anything in my families bank accounts.

But if metaphor beats out literal interpretation. . .

There is something from my childhood I’ve seemed to put away
From the days when honeysuckles and magnolias lined my summer days
And black boys bought baseball cards on warm clear Saturdays

Beautiful

When I call myself Beautiful he comments, rolls his eyes, and uses words like arrogant, conceited, and vain. When I call him Beautiful he is awed, blushes brightly, and smiles, yet all the while questioning the sincerity of my intentions and doubting my telling of truth. It seems the only ones allowed to be beautiful are those brown haired Boston boys with blue eyes and abs designed by Maytag. It seems beauty has become stylized. Redefined reality made real by the reality show casting couch. Illusions of perfection imitating life on sixty-four inch plasma screens. This is not the "Real World" and people do not look like this. People look like me and you and my seventy three year old friend John Rogan: the oldest horniest gayest black man I have ever met; who goes to church every Sunday and who visited his lover in the hospital every Wednesday until he passed; who can list every academy award winner since 1958 and tell you stories so vibrant and wild they'd make you want to be a history major. He is Beautiful . . . The definitions have become too high, and my perceptive is too wide screen to be contained by: "Make Me a Super Model", or "America's Next Top Model", or "America's Most Smartest Model", or "Reality Show Number 6,336". Beauty is not rare. We don't have to do a nation wide search to find it. I see it every hour of everyday in everyone, and if you don't see it, you are not looking right. Your not paying attention . . . or perhaps you are ignoring the obvious. Youth will always be beautiful and blue eyes will always catch your eye, and since symmetry is what makes a picture pretty, digital doctors will always make the best design. But there is something to be said for the askew, for the awkward, and the strange; the interesting and the unique; the short, the freckled, and the four eyed; the bowlegged, the chunky, and the queer; the dark-skinned, the dreadlocked, and the odd. There is something to be said for the beautiful. For the beautiful that are called beautiful by other names. For the ones that are not recognized, who are overlooked, and only found by those who take the time to see. It took time. . . But I found the things in me that I had denied; the things that I had discounted and dismissed; the things that I had tried to hide, and upon reexamination I found them to be blue eyes and fair haired. I found them to be big lipped and bucktoothed, I found them to be 6'2 and muscular. I found them to be pussy boy'd and lisping. I found them to be nineteen and perfect. I found them to be addicted and infected, and I found them to be prayer filled and healthy. I found them to be beautiful. I am beautiful. I am beautiful. I am beautiful. . . And damn it so are you!