Tuesday, October 23, 2018

is it time (lyrics)

I am asleep in a cocoon
hidden from the world
waiting for my colors
waiting to fly

I am nestled in the forest
under a blanket of leaves
the only thing I see
is starlight seeping through

they are whispering, they are calling,
gently urging me out

and the wind, moist with Autumn,
tries to lift the leaves away so I'll be seen.

Is it time, is it time, is it time?
To arrive, to arrive, to arrive.

Is it time, is it time, is it time?
To arrive, to arrive, to arrive.

I see my body over there
and I'm not inside
I hear the labels that you call me
and they're not right

I've been running my whole life

waiting to arrive.

I've had bodies pressed into me
hoping I'd feel something

I've had people try to wake me
hoping I'd start lovin'

but I wasn't there to notice
it was all a lie.

Is it time, is it time, is it time?
To arrive, to arrive, to arrive.

Is it time, is it time, is it time?
To arrive, to arrive, to arrive.

I break out from the cocoon
I strip from the leaves that cover me.
And emerge from the silky web
wings open wide, I fly.

I take the silk that once concealed me,
and sew it in the sky.

Into letters that were waiting
all those whispers that were calling

and the woven light will glow each night

a constellation of the message

I've been writing my whole life.

It is time, it is time, it is time.
To arrive, to arrive to arrive.

It is time, it is time, it is time.
To arrive, to arrive to arrive.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


listen to the song here

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Thursday, October 11, 2018

mostly mist,

the sound of the waves, the only proof that the ocean was still there.

and then there was me,
floating in the clouds.

I watched as my hand turned into sky,
knowing any moment ...
I too,
could disappear. 

Friday, October 5, 2018

Upon seeing him, after not seeing him for months…
The person who used to be my everyday, the one who knew me the most...
I was struck at how the poignant got washed with the mundane.
That though my heart was racing and my entire body shaking,
I asked him about his new hat, he told me about the glasses he just ordered.
I said I was just coming to the coop for a Nugo,
our old language suddenly resurrected, surprisingly intact.
I told him about Quintin the cat voyaging through the neighbors yards.
He said he had been thinking of me, but there was not much more to mention.
The most obvious, present emotion was the last thing that either of us would state.
Instead, I asked him about his chopsticks, his dance-class.
A passerby hearing our conversation might have thought, acquaintances, maybe even strangers.
Unless they saw that my hands were trembling,
and my knees wanting to buckle in when he got up to leave.

It was just a couple of minutes, then suddenly over.
Our time together used to feel so spacious,
like we had all the time in the world to become known to eachother.
And now, after such a brief interaction, not knowing whenever I’ll see him again,
I think back to those lingering days, where the conversation unraveled,
and we shared eachother’s worlds like there would always be more time.
Had we known that it would suddenly be stripped away,
would we still have talked so slowly, or would there have been a more urgent tone,
a feeling to express it all at once?


The last time we hung out, I remember saying
I hate saying goodbye,
almost like a piece of me already knew.
Had I known fully that it was our final goodbye, I might not have actually let go.

There’s a photo from our last time together, before the big rupture.
I’m staring up at the moon, in a long winter coat, though it’s well into spring.
You can see the stiffness in my shoulders.
I remember the stress of my impending move pressing on my shoulders like boulders.
I smile a soft smile, looking up in wonder, as he looks at me to catch the moment.
The picture remains.
One artifact from the night that preceded the day where everything was finally over.
One final proof that we were standing on that bridge together, before it finally crashed to the ground.

Friday, August 31, 2018

learning to pray

you wanted me to bow down
to your gods
and all these other men

but I couldn't find my way
to the ground

but then there was fire
ribbons of light
swirling in the wind, the night.

my head dropped low,
I didn't even have to try.

Then there were birds
singing in my ear

something with wings that flies so high
also spends time far below.

I too, can bow much lower.

I can clasp my hands together and dive into the lake
to be where there is no breath


I come up, gasp in awe.


How miraculous,
this earth.

where to look

the sunken sunflower still leans to the sun
even if, this lean is also a fall,
also a death.

it still knows where to look
even when it's almost gone

Sunday, August 12, 2018

Today, Sonia and I entered the house of someone who voted for Trump. She offered us some orange juice, had us sit at her table. She was still in her pajamas. We were canvassing for Blake Morris, the person running against Sen. Felder in the Kensington area (District 17). When she mentioned that she has issues with the democratic party and voted for Trump in the last election, I was certain the conversation was over. But by that point we were already sitting at the table, looking at eachother -- she had invited us in, we had entered. We started with the New York Health Care Act. She has friends, she told us, that can’t afford health care and just continue their lives with their ailments, trying to ignore them. Yes, she would support a candidate that could change this. She has a friend who lost her kid on Ocean Parkway because there are no high speed cameras to regulate a speed limit. Blake Morris could change this.
She told her stories, we told ours.
The conversation moved into harder areas. She exposed her fear of Muslims. That the bible says homosexuality is a sin. I noticed my body go tense, and felt the gaze of her daughter watching my reaction. I softened my clenching jaw. I was in her house. Drinking her orange juice, sitting at her table. She continued, "But we all have sin in us, so who am I to point a finger at anyone? Who am I?" I said I agreed -- we must look inward for change.
She said she would vote for Blake Morris, she would tell her friends.
She wanted to keep talking, but we got up to leave, we had other houses to get to, more hours of canvassing ahead. But I wonder now what would have happened if we had stayed. If we kept on talking. If I told her I was queer, and that also I’m an awesome person. If I asked her if she has ever invited her Muslim neighbors across the street over for orange juice.
Sometimes, I’m really not sure what I’m doing in this life, but today it was all very clear. I want to talk to people. I want to go to their houses, knock gently on their doors, and try to understand, to listen, to speak. NYC has every kind of people, and also, we know so little about their lives. I have never seen the inside of someone’s house that voted for Trump. I have never even walked over.
We were there for 20 minutes, but it felt like a very far travel, to a place we were all lucky to arrive. I hope to return. I hope to keep trying. I hope we all keep trying.

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