Luv ’til it Hurts


Across generations of continents
What do it mean to be haunted?

by a virus. A bluegrass
grandma in Sparta, Tennessee died today;

So did Ntozake Shange.

I wonder is it was they knew each other?
Ntozake and grandma?

the yellow / the red / the Asian pacific islander /
the poor poor white / the black / the trans girl /
the doula / the woman / the social worker / the rich /
the nuyorican / the new yawker /the southern belle /
the global south /Brasil / the brown-black / AMEM
and thank you /the activist / the artivist / the Zion / the poet /
the visual artist / the scholar / the writer / the shunned /
the convener / the  loved / the forsaken

Ain’t it

a Universe of Us?

got queer children in common?

Somewhere in the beveled glitter of rainbows
A proximal history melts us into lemon drops

America’s punk daughters and sons sure know how to tie a not

How else to cut down a noose?
cept with the knife’s edge of a fem queen’s heel
and an icon’s death drop

tonight Love ‘til it Hurts launched
right where we landed simulcast in this
historic nyc LGBT Center Auditorium
on 13th Street just west of Seventh Avenue South 

breathing the unrequited ash suffusing St. Vincent’s biosphere

in this west village five to six block radius
a repurposed hospital building ain’t never lose it’s mission
here lies a fertile field endlessly pregnant with ghosts

Where NYC’s AIDS patients had flooded-in parched
for something like water & comfort on the hapless occasion
of their tsunami life and death

what do it mean to be haunted by a virus?

Tonight there is a Taipei hiv-positive gay boy in here
lending us an innervision. A love petri dish is bubbling over
in his terrified eyes

He’s going back home soon; His country everywhere
infectious with stigma

the medicine men don’t make pills for that.

Kai’s momma don’t know yet his secret.
Her son a host.

His soul-force, warm porcelain, nurses a kindling tide
swayed with tenderness and courage and rage
and grief and joy we can all touch
when we meet him

he has tasted here in nyc some portion of his soul’s own freedom
the call. we hear it.                    don’t u?

its in the blood its in the blood-water
earnest and quiet and true

It hurts to spring out of a cage smiling
It hurts to bounce too hard against a Tree

In the photos he has shown us.
He is calling us home

He is a gift.

He does not quite know how powerful he is yet.


row after freckled row in this ancestor scented auditorium
every where in view an horizon of all-american fauna
sat blowing in the fall wind

we watch at the intersection
wave after seceding wave
come in

ntozake’s fresh unencumbered ghost
laughs in panorama with all the traffic lights

sitting to my right a tsunami flew in from Edmonton

a boy burning himself to the bone
body fluid born too hot
for a working class town

finds a hungry pandemic after its stolen
the lion share of his bedfellows and wet-dreams
left him spurned already in a hotbed
of First Nation descendants and poor immigrants

a psychic says his former lover in a past life must have been a dandy
from the high hills of america’s west coast

AIDS always had such fashion sense
Here today gone tomorrow
baroque Baudeliere bad ass.

world turned upside down
negative [survey says] is a positive health outcome
if only it were so simple in these blood rich oil fields
reverse transcriptase trenches mine with the nuclear
parochial sanctimony of a moral majority
plus and minus everybody else

the top’s bottom
the bottom’s top
the infected and the un-infected
the bound and the unbound
the buttoned down and the unbuttoned
the prude and the wanderlust
if only our kind came readied to nurse
each ours very own chance at living?

meanwhile Kai’s photos stream behind us un-announced
powerful enough?

[A prayer becomes an affirmation]

to tell their own story

to teach us?

[if even by omission]

the history of unintended

how silent and unbeknownst a virus haunts what it hunts
to occupy the hearts and minds of its prey

This project warrants no apology
the activists job is never done.

Perhaps the best ones wrastle
the too tight tendons
of their own too tidy towns

their own dissembled selves
born biting at the bit
kicking the stables

cut their teeth earn their chops
cross the stigma-shorn frontiers
imbued to their own origins

to discover the wealth
of what it could mean to survive
a pandemic before it kills you.

Whether you have it or not
Whether you will get it

or not

To find a cause, greater than oneself,
throbbing with its own life
beyond the boundaries of caste
and circumstance

to lay among the shunned and the dying
the survived and the surviving
the besieged and the otherwise well off
the castaway and the unmoored

in search of what is possible of a self
inside the catacombs of a womanist’s theory
breathing still at Union Theological Seminary
right where it was found

in new york city
inside the bodies of black women
who had to have known
long before they got there

the evidence of their own being
must be for all civilization
a salvation unto itself.


Now are you gonna start dressing like a girl?

Some questions bury their own answers
inside the ferment whisper of unasked breath.

She was born inside the navel concave of a question
marked for transition from the beginning

a Filipina girl born into someone else’s body
run up the west coast Interstate 5 like a spine
run up the American dream like a tourist with tangled roots

immigrant parents born knowing tourism must be a fantasy
long before it is a business.

A brother in Redding California asks his teenage sibling an answer
to his own redwood question

Before he outs him for talking to a boy


so seismic a proposition to ask a world for: an understanding.
boys and girls are born whole and un-belonging

these parts
they are shells

we can take them on
we can take them off
for the sake of our selves

we are quite simply who we feel we are

Malaya Malaya

Rehearse with me the freedom wolverine-knit
into the soul–spine of that name

She is a brook delicate and frothing
There is fertility in her bones
Like any fresh water river she is born caretaking
A sea of west coast salmon yelping against the tide

Malaya Malaya

She is an undertaking

her own precious project
She intends on becoming the name of herself
Over and over again

feminist courses are no panacea
each intersection
corset a millstone to its own precipice

we who believe in freedom               can not rest
we who believe in freedom              can not rest               until comes

Malaya Malaya

for women of color

Malaya Malaya

there is no way made for us
we must make our way
each every time

Kai too is the beginning of an answer
To Malaya’s own unasked question

To see herself?

freed inside the swelling shadow of her own story
To bear witness how her light must-will,
so numinously, contend with that darkness

A heart pricked too young by a virus
for the which she was offered no viable
first or second language

with which to negotiate an actionable line of defense

Had not quite begun their rally

A whole body of stories snagged between
the too-titan lexicon of an aeon. AIDS HIV unspelling
their own death sentence

whole acronyms still sneezing mouth uncovered
their nubile stigma into a generation’s consciousness
before and after they

re-imagine themselves
a desiccate and crumbled fiction
beneath the hard-packed weight
of their own histories

There is a new way.

We who believe in freedom cannot rest
We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes

these young ones are making it up as they go
the olde warrior’s stories are not enough
for these young bloods

navigating a new virus
in a haint town
in a new time

they will teach us how to read the next chapter
they will teach us how to listen.

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