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M: The distance between us matters little to none For our souls reside together, entwined as one t: Geography and life can keep us apart but neither stops the want of a desirous heart M: Sometimes you're here, in the same space Although just a vision, I can almost see your face t: When i close my eyes i can feel Your heat Having you near, in my heart, makes life replete M: When I close my eyes, you're receptive to my needs Ready to follow and obey wherever I may lead t: my feeling for You is not bound in chains yet i choose it, is the truth that remains M: The imaginary binding I use to to hold you still Shows my affection and desire to bend your will t: on my knees, i know my place Your words and touch i accept with grace M: There's no need to fear that which I give you, boy your faith and trust in me I will never seek to destroy t: i am hungry for all You're willing to teach go to places only with you, i can reach M: Our long-distance connection is worth every moment Our shared D/s Lifestyle but one small component
40 years ago today, Unknown Pleasures was released. A timeless, quintessential, eye-opening album for a much younger me.
I don't have enough knowledge to offer advice, but researching your options and consulting with your doctor always seems like the best place to start. Sorry to hear that you've been suffering from this, my friend. Let's hope you can clear it up quickly and without too much down time.
The Pulse project was an emotional topic for many. tim worked hard to pull it all together, to make it a community effort. I see your poem there now among the others, as it should be, part of the community. If there was any confusion about participation and inclusion, I'm sure it was a matter of miscommunication, nothing more.
It seems I missed your birthday. Happy Belated and I hope it was a good day!
2-0 first period. A Blues Stanley Cup win tonight sure would turn this melancholic day of mine around.
A Poem for Pulse
BY JAMESON FITZPATRICK - 2017
Last night, I went to a gay bar
with a man I love a little.
After dinner, we had a drink.
We sat in the far-back of the big backyard
and he asked, What will we do when this place closes?
I don't think it's going anywhere any time soon, I said,
though the crowd was slow for a Saturday,
and he said—Yes, but one day. Where will we go?
He walked me the half-block home
and kissed me goodnight on my stoop—
properly: not too quick, close enough
our stomachs pressed together
in a second sort of kiss.
I live next to a bar that's not a gay bar
—we just call those bars, I guess—
and because it is popular
and because I live on a busy street,
there are always people who aren't queer people
on the sidewalk on weekend nights.
Just people, I guess.
They were there last night.
As I kissed this man I was aware of them watching
and of myself wondering whether or not they were just.
But I didn't let myself feel scared, I kissed him
exactly as I wanted to, as I would have without an audience,
because I decided many years ago to refuse this fear—
an act of resistance. I left
the idea of hate out on the stoop and went inside,
to sleep, early and drunk and happy.
While I slept, a man went to a gay club
with two guns and killed forty-nine people.
Today in an interview, his father said he had been disturbed
recently by the sight of two men kissing.
What a strange power to be cursed with:
for the proof of men's desire to move men to violence.
What's a single kiss? I've had kisses
no one has ever known about, so many
kisses without consequence—
but there is a place you can't outrun,
whoever you are.
There will be a time when.
It might be a bullet, suddenly.
The sound of it. Many.
One man, two guns, fifty dead—
Two men kissing. Last night
I can't get away from, imagining it, them,
the people there to dance and laugh and drink,
who didn't believe they'd die, who couldn't have.
How else can you have a good time?
How else can you live?
There must have been two men kissing
for the first time last night, and for the last,
and two women, too, and two people who were neither.
Brown people, which cannot be a coincidence in this country
which is a racist country, which is gun country.
Today I'm thinking of the Bernie Boston photograph
Flower Power, of the Vietnam protestor placing carnations
in the rifles of the National Guard,
and wishing for a gesture as queer and simple.
The protester in the photo was gay, you know,
he went by Hibiscus and died of AIDS,
which I am also thinking about today because
(the government's response to) AIDS was a hate crime.
Now we have a president who names us,
the big and imperfectly lettered us, and here we are
getting kissed on stoops, getting married some of us,
some of us getting killed.
We must love one another whether or not we die.
Love can't block a bullet
but neither can it be shot down,
and love is, for the most part, what makes us—
in Orlando and in Brooklyn and in Kabul.
We will be everywhere, always;
there's nowhere else for us, or you, to go.
Anywhere you run in this world, love will be there to greet you.
Around any corner, there might be two men. Kissing.