—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
—love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again— . . . people are always expecting me to fuck like a porn star . I only play one on the teevee some times . and this time I’d wanted to. I’d really wanted to fuck to black fuck to forgetting. . I was sleeping with women I felt wanted to devour me. perhaps they did. perhaps they didn’t. perhaps I wanted them to. . surprised to find me softer, sweeter, than what they’d imagined in a bedroom. . and then the fall and the run me running sans shoes through the night away from mosh pits of fantasy disguised as love . my arms limp spaghetti i’d only wanted to be tossed round a room against a wall am I ready yet cum till I wept . a life in monogamy hasn’t worked yet I’m not taking bets but I might be done . and then the gifts they started coming what were they buying? what were they silencing? never knew one that didn’t have the price tag left on . I had to go . a blizzard. January in Texas blanket of snow on the Texan street the Texan cacti an orange tree . and me alone with my feelings and my friends and my feelings and the snow . and with it I could near hear the radiator blurring steam . in New York all couples become teams fighting the elements in winter even the dead ones rally and try again a simple means of survival a heart fed . I could feel our sheets kicked off socks from heat at the foot of a bed our home not my home anymore . a sleep like I’ve never had before or again her head on my warm chest . busy street where poets once poet-ed now karaoke and hot dogs yuppies their voices bouncing off walls of glass and still— . a place you could feel time . that bed that building that view of a snowblown city street in morning and— . gone. . the Texas snow. and the feeling. fast as they’d come. . and she— like out of a sad dream an almost nightmare a misspent beautiful dream headlights blaring past screaming love would come blinking fast it would come it would come it would come again a comet hurling and for a flash . she was a light. . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . . #queerwriters #poetry
mother, I’ve left for the circus. mother, I won’t be home when supper is ready, the sound of the cow bell, the porch light left on. . mother, I won’t be back to tend to the garden. I won’t collect the eggs from the hens. mother, I will not be home again. . mother, I’ve left with the circus. mother, I’ve lost my thumbs. mother, I’ve burned my bridges. when the circus calls, one must come. . I spend my days sweating in trapeze tents. I sit with the lions and tickle their gums. I don’t have favorites but if I did, the sharp-teethed, they’d be the ones. . mother, I feel best in the lamp light. mother, I’m best outside the drawers. mother, I’m best amongst the bearded ladies, camp fires, clowns, and whores. . curl a palm around bent faces feel lives beating inside drums steady as a ship through night, hands pulled my pocket, said, come. . mother, I’ve run off with the circus. mother, I’m not coming home. mother, I’ll rest my head on train cars. not to worry, I’m not alone. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #filmphotography #filmisnotdead #portrait #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
mother, I’ve left for the circus. mother, I won’t be home when supper is ready, the sound of the cow bell, the porch light left on. . mother, I won’t be back to tend to the garden. I won’t collect the eggs from the hens. mother, I will not be home again. . mother, I’ve left with the circus. mother, I’ve lost my thumbs. mother, I’ve burned my bridges. when the circus calls, one must come. . I spend my days sweating in trapeze tents. I sit with the lions and tickle their gums. I don’t have favorites but if I did, the sharp-teethed, they’d be the ones. . mother, I feel best in the lamp light. mother, I’m best outside the drawers. mother, I’m best amongst the bearded ladies, camp fires, clowns, and whores. . curl a palm around bent faces feel lives beating inside drums steady as a ship through night, hands pulled my pocket, said, come. . mother, I’ve run off with the circus. mother, I’m not coming home. mother, I’ll rest my head on train cars. not to worry, I’m not alone. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #filmphotography #filmisnotdead #portrait #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
mother, I’ve left for the circus. mother, I won’t be home when supper is ready, the sound of the cow bell, the porch light left on. . mother, I won’t be back to tend to the garden. I won’t collect the eggs from the hens. mother, I will not be home again. . mother, I’ve left with the circus. mother, I’ve lost my thumbs. mother, I’ve burned my bridges. when the circus calls, one must come. . I spend my days sweating in trapeze tents. I sit with the lions and tickle their gums. I don’t have favorites but if I did, the sharp-teethed, they’d be the ones. . mother, I feel best in the lamp light. mother, I’m best outside the drawers. mother, I’m best amongst the bearded ladies, camp fires, clowns, and whores. . curl a palm around bent faces feel lives beating inside drums steady as a ship through night, hands pulled my pocket, said, come. . mother, I’ve run off with the circus. mother, I’m not coming home. mother, I’ll rest my head on train cars. not to worry, I’m not alone. . . . 📷 @adamcolemandp . . #filmphotography #filmisnotdead #portrait #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
Gay things – off a prompt from @lydiagranered 📷 @adamcolemandp . In Austin, April is a magnificent surge. Greenery springing, as if from one of those children’s games involving linked arms, leaning back then catapulting forward at the help of sweaty teammates. . Nature moves, as if with a mission to take itself back, as though we are but squatters on this land. And in truth, we are. Vines come back stronger for having survived winter. They wrap themselves around the inanimate — ladders, wood planks, metal, plastic — de-arranging components, elements, molecules. The teamwork of trees and mushrooms. The decay repurposed as fuel. As new life. . I had never witnessed a plant growing before my eyes until Texas. Trumpet vines double in size as water hits them. It’s something out of Alice’s wonderland. Plants I’d thought dead return triumphant. . I had chalked up the landscape being overgrown to the people here caring more about the quality of their lives than perfectly mown lawns. Charming. Part of me moved here for the sweet relief of imperfect lawns. I now understand that Austin’s deeply rooted nature will only come back harder, stronger, faster, the more it is cut back. . So what really is the bloody point of quieting what is determined to be the loudest voice in the room? And why shouldn’t it be? Nature, Gaia, Mother Earth, what is for me, synonymous with equality, with truth, with life force, with God, and most recently, despite being a descendant of Cuban Catholics, the word gay. Lydia and I chuckling as we bow our heads in earnest at my Texas dining table, “dear Gay….” . Tonight I walk past a house where children play. Chalk in the well-loved lending library. And because I am a forever child, I pull the chalk from the library to use it. I contemplate writing the word gay. . . . (Continue in comments or swipe –>) . . . #Saygay #queerwriters #gaywriters #queerpoet #loveislove #writingcommunity #queerwriting #writeyourheartin #andreagibson #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #gay #filmphotographyisnotdead #portraitphotography
for ash. . . that time of day when the air smells like laundry detergent and the light gets that pinky hue do you go out walkin me too . I like to see em out with doggies all resembling their owners . and the lamps coming on in kitchens their pans clanging their lives living a living theater just for me just for us . ever notice how fast time moves how fast the light moves after five o’clock . hey, do you remember when I caught you staring at the moon your head in the dirt and you reminded me we don’t look up enough . said, “stars – see how they’re breathing” said, “ain’t life grand” a big sweet smile on that familiar face and I took your hand heads in the dirt, I took your hand . hey, do you remember a minute ago when we were kids walking home on that street where our families bottomed out and you took my hand shoes on the sidewalk, you took my tiny hand called me friend and I thought I’ll walk this to the end . I love you. I still do. forever and always, will do I’ll love you. . good. me too. . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #honeyandmilkfilm #friendship
for ash. . . that time of day when the air smells like laundry detergent and the light gets that pinky hue do you go out walkin me too . I like to see em out with doggies all resembling their owners . and the lamps coming on in kitchens their pans clanging their lives living a living theater just for me just for us . ever notice how fast time moves how fast the light moves after five o’clock . hey, do you remember when I caught you staring at the moon your head in the dirt and you reminded me we don’t look up enough . said, “stars – see how they’re breathing” said, “ain’t life grand” a big sweet smile on that familiar face and I took your hand heads in the dirt, I took your hand . hey, do you remember a minute ago when we were kids walking home on that street where our families bottomed out and you took my hand shoes on the sidewalk, you took my tiny hand called me friend and I thought I’ll walk this to the end . I love you. I still do. forever and always, will do I’ll love you. . good. me too. . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #honeyandmilkfilm #friendship
for ash. . . that time of day when the air smells like laundry detergent and the light gets that pinky hue do you go out walkin me too . I like to see em out with doggies all resembling their owners . and the lamps coming on in kitchens their pans clanging their lives living a living theater just for me just for us . ever notice how fast time moves how fast the light moves after five o’clock . hey, do you remember when I caught you staring at the moon your head in the dirt and you reminded me we don’t look up enough . said, “stars – see how they’re breathing” said, “ain’t life grand” a big sweet smile on that familiar face and I took your hand heads in the dirt, I took your hand . hey, do you remember a minute ago when we were kids walking home on that street where our families bottomed out and you took my hand shoes on the sidewalk, you took my tiny hand called me friend and I thought I’ll walk this to the end . I love you. I still do. forever and always, will do I’ll love you. . good. me too. . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #honeyandmilkfilm #friendship
for ash. . . that time of day when the air smells like laundry detergent and the light gets that pinky hue do you go out walkin me too . I like to see em out with doggies all resembling their owners . and the lamps coming on in kitchens their pans clanging their lives living a living theater just for me just for us . ever notice how fast time moves how fast the light moves after five o’clock . hey, do you remember when I caught you staring at the moon your head in the dirt and you reminded me we don’t look up enough . said, “stars – see how they’re breathing” said, “ain’t life grand” a big sweet smile on that familiar face and I took your hand heads in the dirt, I took your hand . hey, do you remember a minute ago when we were kids walking home on that street where our families bottomed out and you took my hand shoes on the sidewalk, you took my tiny hand called me friend and I thought I’ll walk this to the end . I love you. I still do. forever and always, will do I’ll love you. . good. me too. . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #honeyandmilkfilm #friendship
for ash. . . that time of day when the air smells like laundry detergent and the light gets that pinky hue do you go out walkin me too . I like to see em out with doggies all resembling their owners . and the lamps coming on in kitchens their pans clanging their lives living a living theater just for me just for us . ever notice how fast time moves how fast the light moves after five o’clock . hey, do you remember when I caught you staring at the moon your head in the dirt and you reminded me we don’t look up enough . said, “stars – see how they’re breathing” said, “ain’t life grand” a big sweet smile on that familiar face and I took your hand heads in the dirt, I took your hand . hey, do you remember a minute ago when we were kids walking home on that street where our families bottomed out and you took my hand shoes on the sidewalk, you took my tiny hand called me friend and I thought I’ll walk this to the end . I love you. I still do. forever and always, will do I’ll love you. . good. me too. . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #honeyandmilkfilm #friendship
for ash. . . that time of day when the air smells like laundry detergent and the light gets that pinky hue do you go out walkin me too . I like to see em out with doggies all resembling their owners . and the lamps coming on in kitchens their pans clanging their lives living a living theater just for me just for us . ever notice how fast time moves how fast the light moves after five o’clock . hey, do you remember when I caught you staring at the moon your head in the dirt and you reminded me we don’t look up enough . said, “stars – see how they’re breathing” said, “ain’t life grand” a big sweet smile on that familiar face and I took your hand heads in the dirt, I took your hand . hey, do you remember a minute ago when we were kids walking home on that street where our families bottomed out and you took my hand shoes on the sidewalk, you took my tiny hand called me friend and I thought I’ll walk this to the end . I love you. I still do. forever and always, will do I’ll love you. . good. me too. . . . . #wordporn #poetryoftheday #poetry #poetrycommunity #poet #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetrylovers #poemsofig #writtenword #written #writing #writingcommunity #writinglife #writinginspiration #queer #queerartist #queerwriters #queerwriter #honeyandmilkfilm #friendship
