Today there is sunshine in Seattle. Today I am born once more.

First: Egypt, I am proud of you for standing up.

     I often wish that I was physically a part of a queer rights movement as opposed to just belonging to the struggle mentally. Sometimes I get so frustrated by homophobia and the absurdity behind such notions as my not being able to marry in this state that I fear I'll either burst into flames or cry for years without stopping.

   It is lovely out today in Seattle and with that comes dreams of my future. I have been serving for far too long and silently wishing that someone would waltz into my life and start publishing my poetry or give me a new career where I am fostered creatively. That is largely unjust toward myself and it is time to be more proactive. I have committed to making Feb. the month of me. With that comes entering into new writing competitions, performing more, and pursuing work which allows me to be a bit more rewarded and where I can blossom. I have spent years thinking I wasn't smart enough nor deserving of anything else, how wrong I have been.

Poem of mine for the day:
Without Apology

I could think of a thousand ways to say, “you should love me”, or even just “fuck me for an undetermined amount of time”.
But saying, “I was wrong” seems impossible--
despite attempts in the few languages I now know.

So, Mizz Cather I want you to write this story for me.
Please use ardor reds and yellows.
Let my emotions roll onward like Nebraska plains.
I want you to stretch me out so eloquently that my impurities feel like crescendo,
my words-- a climax.
Be cognizant of the lovers left in my wake.

Do not talk to me about love songs.
I’ve already authored every love song with the dropping of a few quarters into his cup.
Do not speak to me of dancing.
I was spinning in fields of green but I could not say good-bye to you while--
you were already living in my best friend’s toes.
You’re ribbons have all been cut.

When I was handed the tray of my traits,
Daddy was adamant about giving me his stubborn horns.
I wear this shit with open eyes and plush hands now.
My face welcomes any fellow ship in the harbor but ask me to change my direction boy--
and I’ll swallow your whole goddamn crew.

I have spent too many alley nights trying to knife my own history in the ribs.
There is no voice box for weakness.
My grit is quicksand.