It’s been years since top surgery, and my chest is still numb. The nerve endings never healed. I picture the skin outside my heart woven together with fraying fibers, twisted and unkempt. I can sense pressure, but all else disappears on contact. A red hot shower, an over-washed band t-shirt, the chipped edge of a coffee mug balanced on my chest while turning the page of a book. My own hands—it all turns to sand, swept clean in the presence of my skin…
Read MoreWelcome to our pantheon of queer icons, where otherness, diversity and vulnerability are nurtured, shared and celebrated. We are HVNGRY for more — hungry for more tolerance, more respect, more freedom, more visibility, more protection, more rights, more solidarity and more love!
Read MoreThe grass beats its edges / on wind: in a great/white surge the moths / rise overnight: I watch / my lover eat her first fig / whole: pulped tongue: jellied / fingers at the neighbor’s / kitchen table...
Read MoreI worked in the typesetting division of George Litho with seven other gay men when I began the Shanti AIDS Volunteer Training in San Francisco in 1983. Ron was one of the department’s proofreaders, and we’d gone to dinner a few times, went to the movies, once rode bikes the entire length of Golden Gate Park, all the way out to Ocean Beach. He came from a small town in the Midwest...
Read MoreTo be in bed with the woman you love at five in the afternoon, five-thirty, six. To become the Milky Way, shuddering, smeared with stars. Contained, yet always expanding. Are there sounds in outer space? Because if I were to make a single sound right now, I fear everything would burst…
Read MoreWe gather our helmets and stuff them into our ally’s ride-along car. Two beloveds pop by to hug and share mutual admiration for our leather. They will lead the parade in vests that read “Bring them back” and “Safe supply now.” I reapply my lipstick and tuck it back into my bra next to my pink pocket knife. “DYKES ON BIKES! Let’s gooooooo!”
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