Reflection: Commemorating PULSE - 1. Reflection: Commemorating PULSE

                                                                                                                              

 

I remember survivors’ testimony –

The murderer paused in his tracks,

After putting down with cold acrimony

A young black man with a bullet through his head,

Lecturing the dying with his facts

That any other Blacks who were not dead,

Should stand up, and exit with his best regard,

Saying sorry for his attacks,

“Because in America, you’ve had it hard.”

 

Because in America, you’ve had it hard…

Forgive him for his Queer bigotry

And crawl out, if you can, with his kind regard.

So once more, the victims had shoved down their throats

The bile taste of religious ‘mercy’

With the killer’s words acid-etched in history

Leaving all of us who have been left behind

To fathom hate’s idolatry

Like a burning bullet through a loving mind.

 

Like a burning bullet through a loving mind

There’s no way to restrain such spite

Exiting all of us who’ve been left behind,

Acknowledging how nothing’s really changed yet

And their hate is well within sight

Waiting for the next attack without much fret,

For they say that’s the fate of this ‘life’ we lead,

And there’s no point really to fight

Before that moment we’re left there, forced to bleed.

 

Before that moment we’re left there, forced to bleed,

Cut by religious mercy’s glass shard,

Severing life they’ve deemed unworthy to lead,

“Because in America, you’ve had it hard.”

-AC Benus

 

 

 

Brandenburg Gate

 

Tonight people`s vote illumes the gate bright,

all the brilliant colors of the rainbow,

giving testimony, we are brothers.

So we are crying in sad candlelight.

 

Tonight the gate proclaims our woe and grief

Forty nine souls are cruelly ripped from us

from the world, life, love and from their future,

taken because of a hatred belief.

 

We lay down flowers in front of the gate,

jointly brothers and sisters, standing strong;

Berlin for Orlando remind their fate.

 

Stubborn and persistent at any rate,

even our hearts seem to crumble and break;

those shining colors will never mean hate.

- Lyssa

 

 

Speak Up!

 

On June 12, 2016, a Muslim extremist and ISIS sympathizer, killed forty-nine men and women inside Pulse, an Orlando nightclub catering to the gay community. I refuse to use the scumbag’s name; he should be remembered only as a murderer.

The next day, an idiot exacerbated my anger by tweeting a biblical verse implying the dead had brought the tragedy upon themselves. I railed against him in a status update. When someone figured out the man was a politician and replied to my comment, the thread was removed for being political. I saw red.

I refused to be silenced.

The following is an excerpt from chapter one of Georgetown: Roar, the first book I published after the shooting. Don’t worry about who the characters are, I’d like you to focus on their reactions.

Being a Sunday morning, CJ expected to have the house to himself for a few hours, so he was surprised when he found his dads, Tom, JP, and Dragon nursing mugs of coffee watching television on the first floor. “Morning. What are y’all doing up this early?” CJ’s voice was raspy due to his night of partying.

“Good morning, buddy. You look like shit.” César stood and walked towards the kitchen where his son was pouring himself coffee. “What time did you and Ozzie get home?”

“Not sure, Dad. It was late. We closed down the bar. Tank and a few of the other guys wanted to go to someone’s place and keep drinking, but I’d had enough so we called an Uber. What’s going on? Why are you people so quiet? Did something happen? Is that why you’re all staring at the TV? ”

He walked behind his father when César motioned to follow, heading towards the front of the room where the older man took up his spot on the couch next to Brett once again. There was a box of tissues atop the coffee table and lots of them crumpled on the floor. CJ noticed all the men had moist eyes, and Dragon’s were particularly red. The big black guy shook his head and dabbed at his face. “There was a shooting in Orlando last night, CJ. Some asshole walked into a gay nightclub and started firing. We don’t have a good idea of the number of people murdered. But they’re calling it the worst massacre in US history.”

CJ felt as if the air had been taken out of the room. He placed his mug on the table and sank to the floor; his back rested against the couch between his dads’ legs. “Fuck! Did they catch the bastard?”

“Fucker’s dead.” Brett’s words were clipped growls. “Cops stormed the place around five this morning and killed him.”

“Do we know who he is or why he did it?”

“What difference does it make?” Dragon was not his usual boisterous self. The tone struck CJ hard; Devon Jefferson was like his fathers and their other friends―someone who confronted problems and dealt with them. Right now, he sounded defeated. “Remember you and I talking about going to bars? How they were a place the gay community could be itself and not be judged? It was fucking Latin Night! It’s the kind of night I would have loved to be in there. I… I… SHIT!”

“I’m sorry…” CJ did not know what else to say. When Dragon put his head down, covered his face with his hands, and started sobbing, he realized in some ways he could not relate to what they were feeling. He had been to a few gay bars in the past months―thanks to the fake ID Sean had given him as a present―but it was not the same. He did not have the same sense of belonging the older men experienced. His life was different. He felt the pain but most of all he was angry.

“As much as my fellow cops may disagree with me, these are the times I wish more people would carry concealed weapons.” Tom Kennedy, a District of Columbia Police Detective, was not known for advocating violence and his statement took them all by surprise. “If assholes like this guy knew a few fags and dykes carried guns and could defend themselves, maybe this crap wouldn’t happen. I’m glad you own one now and you carry it around, CJ.”

Thiago was the first one to text. He wanted to know if CJ was awake and if he had seen the news. Before replying, he looked at his dads and the men he acknowledged as uncles; their shock and sadness made him realize he wanted his friends around him too. He texted Thiago back, inviting him to come over whenever he wanted. CJ suspected there would not be much going on this Sunday.

Deciding it was time to wake Owen, CJ stood and returned to the kitchen to fix his boyfriend a cup of coffee. César’s phone rang at the same time his did. He listened to his dad greet Dr. Matt Calhoun―their friend and family physician―and invite him to come over to the house and bring his partner Dasan along. CJ at last answered his own phone. “Hey, Patrick.” Figuring out there were more people coming over, CJ started a fresh pot of coffee. “Yeah, your dads are here, and I think they’ll be staying for a while. Turn on the news. Dragon’s also here and Doc and Dash are coming by too. So’s Thiago. Scoot over whenever you want to, we’ll be here. And let Brad know.”

His phone chirped again while he opened up the freezer in the pantry and retrieved a bag of bagels. It was Chipper, letting him know he was tagging along with Matt and Dasan. “Hey, dads, gonna go wake up Ozzie. I started a fresh pot and took bagels out to defrost. Chipper’s coming with Doc and Dash, and Thiago will be here soon. Patrick called looking for Tom and JP. I told him to turn on the TV and then come over whenever he and Brad wanted to.”

“Dude, take out more bagels. Danno just texted us. He and Trip are on the way too. Do we need them to bring anything?” Brett looked sad when his eyes met CJ’s. He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair and sighed. CJ was not used to seeing his tough, Marine father looking so lost. So beaten.

“Yeah, tell them to stop somewhere and get cream cheese and a couple cartons of OJ. I think we’re gonna have a full house pretty soon. I’m going to go get Ozzie, okay?”

JP spoke before CJ reached the stairs. “Please ask him to text or e-mail his family. Even though they’ll hear this happened in Florida, they’re going to worry.”

As soon as he reached the basement, he heard Owen’s phone chime and grabbed it from the coffee table his boyfriend had dropped it on the previous evening. Walking into the bedroom, he put the mugs and phone on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed next to his sleeping man. Running a hand through the Aussie’s hair he tried to imagine someone walking into the bar they had been at the previous night and opening fire. It was too gruesome an image and he shook his head trying to dispel it. “Hey, babe. Time to wake up.” CJ used the remote control to turn on and mute the television set. The local station’s weekend anchors were at their desk, images from Orlando playing on a corner of the screen and a ticker running along the bottom repeating the news.

Owen ran a hand over his face and opened first one eye and then the other one. “G’day. What’s going on? You almost always let me sleep late on Sundays.” He shifted his gaze to the television screen and smirked. “Damn you’re turning into a junkie. Did you turn on the TV to get your fix of politics?”

“Not this morning. There… there was a shooting at a gay club in Orlando last night. Lots of injured people and quite a few dead.”

“WHAT?” Owen was definitely awake now. “What happened?”

“That’s as much as I know. Tom, JP, and Dragon are upstairs with the dads. And the rest of their group’s coming over. Check your phone. You have a message and I think it’s from some of our friends. Thiago, Chipper, and the Kennedy brothers already called or texted and are also coming over.”

Owen reached for his phone and ran his finger over the screen to unlock it. “Two messages. Ethan and Tank. Wow! About the same from both. They want to know if I’m awake and suggest I turn on the news.”

“Text them back and tell them to come over if they want to. I’m going to jump in the shower and put on some clothes. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long morning.”

By the time CJ was done and opened the bathroom door, Owen was lucid. He stepped into the shower stall as soon as CJ vacated the room. “Harley texted both of us. I sent him a message letting him know we were all getting together here.”

“Okay. I’m gonna wake up Ritchie.” He didn’t have to. When he walked upstairs, he found his brother sitting at the breakfast bar next to Patrick, both of them with a Coke can in front of them.

“I’m sorry, CJ. I… I’m glad you’re safe.” The younger boy jumped off the stool as soon as his brother walked into the room. He wrapped his arms around CJ and wouldn’t let go.

“Hey, hey. I’m okay. We’re all fine. This shit was in Orlando.”

“Yeah, but what if it happened here? I mean, it could, you know?”

“True, but it could happen anywhere. It was a gay club in Florida last night but it could happen anywhere. Are you going to hide in the house from now on? Is that what you want me to do?”

Ritchie let go of his brother and stared into CJ’s eyes. “No… I’m… I’m just scared. Why do so many people hate gays?”

“I’m going back home to shower and change.” Patrick stood and spoke loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “If anyone wants to join me, I’m going to church. Services are at ten.”

“I’ll go with you. But I need to shower and get dressed too,” Ritchie said.

“I’ll go with you guys. I’ll just throw on some jeans right before we leave.” Owen had walked upstairs wearing shorts and a polo shirt. “CJ?”

“I don’t think so, Ozzie. But you three go ahead. I’ll be here. I don’t want to leave the dads, and we’re going to have a full house by the time you guys get back. I’m gonna slice some fruit and get the bagels ready to feed everyone.” He looked at his phone when it pinged again and saw a message from Robbie Mook telling him he might be asked to speak on behalf of the campaign and begging him to call as soon as possible.

 

Ethan slipped in between CJ and Owen and draped an arm around each of the men. “Alright, CJ, what the heck were you and your Dad arguing about before we left your place?” He glanced to the side and nodded toward the muscular blonde on the other side of Owen. “Tank and I heard you guys shouting at each other while we waited for the Uber. Are you in trouble?”

“Nah, it’s fine. It’s not the first time I get into a loud argument with one of the dads. And I betcha it won’t be the last.”

“Can I ask what the fight was about? I’ve never seen you argue with them.” Tank was the newest member of CJ’s Squad and had yet to spend significant time around César and Brett.

“The dads are cool, but now and then they get protective of their little boy, mate.” Owen squeezed CJ’s hand for a moment. “César didn’t want us coming out tonight.”

“But why?” Tank sounded surprised and confused. “The little I’ve seen of the two of them they always sound very supportive of whatever you want to do.”

The four men slowed down as they approached the crowd on Dupont Circle. A group of Muslim women had organized a candlelight vigil in memory of the Pulse shooting victims. “Thank you.” CJ accepted the plastic cup with a candle inside it and waited as the woman handed each of his friends one and then lit them. “They are supportive, Tank. But after those nasty comments on my old Twitter account, they’re always warning me to be extra careful.”

Owen took CJ’s hand once again and interlaced their fingers. “César’s concerned about safety tonight. He’s worried a bunch of Muslims organizing an event for a bunch of gay people could bring out the loonies.”

“Isn’t that why they bought you Lola? Are you carrying it tonight?” Tank had previously been introduced to the Sig Sauer p226 Brett had bought for his son and CJ had named Lola.

CJ wore motorcycle boots, jeans, a t-shirt, and the new leather vest Danno and Trip had given him the day before as an early graduation present. “Yep.” He patted the vest where a small bulge could be seen if one looked close enough. “This has a built-in holster. Papa insisted I carry it when Robbie asked me to say a few words tonight on behalf of Secretary Clinton.”

“Nice vest!” Trip’s voice made the guys whirl around.

CJ smiled and gave the man a quick hug. “What you doing here, Trip?”

“My job.” Charles Beauregard Houston, III―Trip to his friends―was a reporter. “Covering the vigil by talking to participants. Your dads mentioned you might be speaking tonight. That still on?”

“I guess…” CJ was hesitant. “I’m supposed to meet someone from the campaign. They thought I’d be the right spokesperson tonight what with me being gay and some of these people having already seen me on TV. Dad wasn’t happy about it.”

All five men reached for their phones at the same time when they chirped. “Speak of the devil.” Trip chuckled as he read the text message. “César’s being his usual anal-retentive, thorough self. Take a look at who he sent this to. All the Elite and I’ll guess the other ones are the Squad.”

CJ shook his head and smiled. His dad wanted them all to remember the next day was meant to be a celebration and asked them not to let the massacre in Orlando mar Walls’ graduation ceremonies. The previous day had been a blur with so many friends sitting around the house talking and sometimes shedding tears. “Leave it to Dad to think ahead.”

A while later, as he stood with a microphone in hand, CJ estimated there were a few hundred people in the crowd. “Good evening. My name’s CJ Abelló and I’m here representing Hillary Clinton. On behalf of the secretary, I want to add her voice to ours as we mourn this horrible loss. She wants you to know her prayers are with us.” He paused as he tried to decide what else to say. “That’s my official statement. However, as a gay man I have something else in mind I’d like to share.

“When a presidential candidate ignores the massacre victims in his tweet. When he instead pats himself on the back and claims he’s being congratulated for his remarks against terrorists. When the lieutenant governor of one of our largest states sends out a bible verse implying it was the victims’ fault they were killed because of their sexual orientation. When politicians keep trying to make us into second-class citizens, it’s time we stand up and speak.

“Tonight, we eulogize. Tomorrow, we organize. For the fight is far from over. It may never be. But if we stand together, if we join our voices and speak as one, we can and will make a difference. So I urge you to go out and get involved. Go out and speak up. Go out and work for candidates who support us. Go out and be heard. Let the world know we’re not victims. And let them know we’re ready to fight back! We will not be cowed and we will not be silenced.”

 

The pain lingered and does to this day. Months after the above was published, I scratched at the emotional scab in Georgetown: As Time Goes By.

CJ was puzzled when Harley turned first on Holden and then Orange Avenue instead of Colonial. The confusion cleared up when he glimpsed a corner lot surrounded by green-canvas construction fencing. Rising near the property’s edge like a sentinel guarding the area, stood the PULSE sign. The jumble of emotions threatened his concentration. Harley turning right and stopping was a welcome respite.

The gay nightclub was the site of a massacre almost two years before. Forty-nine men and women gunned down by a radicalized American terrorist who answered ISIS’ call. The event, combined with the shooting of several police officers in Dallas less than a month later, threw CJ into a funk he did not shake off for a while.

“Thank you, Harley.” Owen’s gratitude echoed CJ’s multitude of feelings. “I’m surprised you found it so easy.”

“I’ve… I’ve been here before.” Harley focused his attention on a couple of pebbles he kicked against the curb. “I was curious so I rode by, saw people were still leaving signs and flowers, so I stopped. Thought of you guys a lot then and once we got on the road I figured you wouldn’t mind a short detour. They’re turning the place into a permanent memorial. I sent them twenty-five bucks.”

CJ found his voice. “That’s awesome, brother.” With a sad smile he returned his attention to the two banners hanging on the fence while wiping a tear away. One had the PULSE logo, the other one, an architectural rendering of the proposed memorial. Both had contact information about the foundation spearheading the commemoration effort and encouraged visitors to write messages on them. His grin matched Harley’s when his friend handed him a black marker. CJ added his own and signed with his and Owen’s names.

“I came prepared.” Harley may have sounded close to smug.

“Harley, you’re the greatest. CJ and I will definitely send in a contribution. Thank you for thinking of us.”

 

I was never at PULSE while it was open. My only visit was when I stopped my motorcycle next to the fenced-in property during a trip to Central Florida. I too added a message to one of those banners.

It seems ironic I’m cobbling this essay together as we, and the world, get ready to celebrate the 50th Anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. A different gay bar in a different city at a different time. Then, a group of patrons fought back when police officers raided the establishment. The Gay Rights Movement was born that night.

All because they were pissed off and decided to speak up.

CJ’s exhortation in my writing continues to apply: we must speak up. Our silence and tacit acceptance of discrimination must end. And those who trample on our rights should be held accountable and made to pay. If we remain silent, if we allow political and religious leaders to continue demonizing us, we are complicit in their actions.

Damn right I’m still pissed off. You should be too. Get off your ass and do something.

-Carlos Hazday

 

 

 

I’ve walked a beat on city streets

Been called faggot and queer cop

Cleaned up messes, blood and gore

It never gets easier.

When you, my brothers and sisters

died in the Pulse massacre

After you and your families,

my thoughts and heart went to those called in

to pick through what was you, and yours.

Our duty to make it as right as we can

To make you whole once more

To be sure

before the last rites and final goodbyes.

- MichaelS36

 

 

 

The bright lights have gone dim

And the pulsing music's faded.

Emptiness and sorrow

Remain for the once thriving club.

 

The pulse of life still beats,

Carried in all our memories.

People we've never met

Shall be with us now and always.

 

Troubles seem trivial

As we join together as friends.

Embracing each other

In love’s bright ever pulsing light.

-WolfM

 

 

Sinus

The sinus node causes the contraction
of the heart chambers
and thus supplies a regular, rhythmic heartbeat.
A Pulse.

June 12th 2016 Forcibly stopped. Forty-nine times.
By hate. By ignorance. By bigotry.

Don’t forget their smiles.
Above all. Their smiles.
Counter with love.

And the beat goes on.

-Aditus-

 

 

Incense

 

Before your Remembering Stone

I softly here kneel

I am detached but not alone

I deeply do feel

 

Within my quivering hand there is

A scented symbol

A sweet offering before his

starkly etched sigil

 

One mere stick wrapped in blackest coal

A wand of Incense

When once lit works to seek your soul

beyond death's black fence

 

My love rises on scented smoke

A holy sweet perfume

That this Incense seeks to invoke

Your life beyond this tomb

         

-MrM

 

 

The Mist On The Stream

On a day of my choice I ventured out

Traveling along a stream white and pure

One whose soft banks my feet have known about

Seeking to find some palliative cure

 

For something I can neither name or know

My known path becomes something alien

The forest dark air is lit by a bow

Prismatic in color it shines without sun

 

Before mine emerald eyes hangs a strange mist

Floating free above the silent streaming

Two elementals dance nude in their tryst

One of air and one of water they sing

 

To life the bow of colors with love's light

Tiny they seem to my unpracticed eyes

One winged in blue the other winged in white

Sexless and seamless in their given guise

 

I sense only vagaries in their form

The clues of which only hint at human

Set to benefit my eyes to inform

And to ease any fear or objection

 

Upon my standing in their mist amid

They awaken to my living presence

Turn they do to my aspect most timid

I fear for my life before these ancients

 

Fear only waxes as I see them grow

To shapes both tall and with matchless beauty

I shrink away from the two fearing some blow

Thinking I have defiled their sanctity

 

My terror is unfounded as I whinged

Because with touches and gentle kisses

My golden element rose as I cringed

And my eyes met theirs with smiling faces

 

Weighted in strength my element anchors

My two dancing partners floating above

While spinning free in this dance of ours

I come to understand the truest love

 

Spinning faster our ecstasies fast climb

Shimmering together our colours change

Burning we three with hot shimmers sublime

A new light is born amid our exchange

 

Redder than roses and brighter than stars

He turns in our midst and fulfills our joy

He is a new part, the sum of all ours

An elemental child this our boy

 

Flaming his laughter seeks to burst each seam

His touch reaches out in a thrilling blaze

Consuming all in the mists on the stream

Our elements gone in a glorious haze

 

Of my own fate no mere mortal can know

Of what road I took on so strange a way

The villagers say only what is so

That I was lost by the stream to the Fae

 

- MrM

 

 

 

 

 

When I heard about the shooting at Pulse,
I was saddened but not surprised.
It wasn’t the first time we had been victimised.

There was a certain feeling of inevitability,
that sent a chill up my spine.
It made me cry: there but for the will of God, go I.

I refuse to mention the killer’s earthly name.
The Devil’s spawn, bereft of reason, devoid of shame.

How is it possible to comprehend
the workings of a mind so twisted and bent?

Instead, I focus on the victims. Real people, you and me.
Stories of courage, love, and bravery.

I can feel their fear and live their pain.
We’ve felt it before; we’ll feel it again.

-Dodger

           

 

 

 

One Good Man

 

One good man

died on a dusty hill

and they called him son of god most high;

fifty perished that night in a hail of bullets;

they were no less the light incarnate,

love’s image, yet only

statistics.

-Parker Owens

 

 

Echoes

 

Sirens sound

their bold, baleful ballads,

shrill news of sadness and suffering

constant as we careen from one crash to the next;

yet they pass, mere reverberations

of a calamity

much too green.

-Parker Owens

 

 

Chords

 

Remember us when music sounds, perchance

and not for what self-righteous windbags bleat,

for all we ever wanted was to dance

 

and be ourselves with none to look askance

or worry that we live within deceit;

remember us when music sounds, perchance.

 

We didn’t seek your causes to advance,

make changes to those rules made obsolete;

no, all we ever wanted was to dance,

 

pursuing happiness, or light romance,

to rhythms of a sunny Latin beat:

remember us when music sounds, perchance.

 

It shouldn’t merit any second glance:

why must we don our masks, be more discreet,

as if they never wanted us to dance?

 

Let not grey silence fall with its expanse

nor doublespeak our history delete;

remember us when music sounds, perchance

for all we ever wanted was to dance.

-Parker Owens

 

 

 

 

 

She sees her

Hearts soar and leap

He sees him

Desire burns deep

 

I see you

Heat flames inside

It’s our love

It won't be denied

 

Should it matter

Or be defined

Why look away

Isn't love blind

 

We breathe one air

Bleed one color

It's just love

We will not cower

 

Love is love

While you despise

We fight the fight

Till strong we rise

 

We'll honor our fallen

Declare our pride

Because it's love

We will not hide

-Defiance19

 

 

 

A Reflection

June 12th, 2016. At the time, it was the second worst mass shooting by a single gunman, in U.S. history. These words played repeatedly, when the news broke. Certainly, it was the worst act committed against the LGBTQ community. It was horrific. I remember feeling the weight of hurt and sadness and helplessness as I watched. Why would anyone walk into a gay bar and shoot down people having a good time. Why? I couldn't fathom it or explain. Anger clogged my throat. There was nothing much to say, I mean what could anyone say that would make sense, in the face of this kind of gruesome tragedy. Most of the country, I believe was suspended in abject sorrow and disbelief and terror. They were people first. People with families, with lives, with dreams. They were men, women, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. Forty-nine lives just gone. Brutal deaths, with no mercy.

Their voices silenced forever, when hate stole them away.

In the days after, we learnt of the vibrant young men and women who were simply living their lives - their truth. Until someone decided, those lives had to be denied. We got the sound bites of who they were, what they did. We saw snippets of their smiles, got pieces of their personalities from social media. They were loved, and they loved. Yet still, every day, the voices of hate wages war amongst us. Sometimes it’s loud, most times it’s ever so subtle. It is there to make us fear what we don’t understand. We are being manipulated into fearing each other, based on our sexual orientation, our race, our gender. We are being asked to accept one standard of what is normal. We are being asked to bear false adherence to religious beliefs. All designed to engender that hate. We see common decency fall by the wayside. It is in this time, when we should remember the victims of hate most. When our voices should be loud, and we should speak up, do something, be seen. We are still mired in deep ignorance. Our voices matter, we matter. Forty-nine lives. They were human. People like you and me. They matter.

To honor them, we should not mourn in silence.

As we come again to the anniversary of those forty-nine individuals whose lives were cut short by hate, my hope is that love, compassion, kindness and forgiveness, lead the way forward. I hope we allow those things to motivate respect toward and for each other. I hope that we can show the people who are so filled with hate, that there is nothing to fear. Being gay, being black, brown, being a woman, or anything that is different from you, are not the things that ruin humankind. Rather, we should seek to understand each other and our differences. We should protect the dignity of our fellow human beings. We need to celebrate inclusion, celebrate and embrace our diversity. I hope that we can stop reliving our past and shine light on what our future could be. I hope that no group of people would have to hide or fear who they are. I hope the memories of the Pulse victims live in our hearts, inspiring us to not give up but stand together in the fight against those who would have us silenced. I hope for a day when equality, inclusion, and our basic human rights, are not something we have to die for. It might be naïve to hope for all this, but sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps me going.

When history tells the story, I hope by then, their deaths were not in vain.

MAY THEIR MEMORIES BE ETERNAL.

- Defiance19

 

 

 

 

For Orlando

 

You didn’t give your life, you had no choice

Hatred this sad day was given a voice

But stand up we will to remember you

You did not die in vain; we’ll make that true

Live on we must, celebrating our Pride

Remembering you, all of you who died.

You who survive, don’t fear, do not give in

We must stand tall, for when we don’t, they win.

-Mikiesboy (2016)

 

 

 

 

American Tragedy

 

Gaze at their beautiful faces

I do through tear-filled eyes

Listen to all forty-nine names

How many tears need we cry?

 

You say it's an American tragedy

Though cruel laws you still evoke

At arm’s length you continue to hold us

Your words are nothing but smoke

 

Well, we are here and it's to stay

Our fight is far from done

Remember each of the forty-nine

The day will come when we're one

 

-Mikiesboy (2016)

 

 

 

 

 

pulse

 

 

What can you do? What can you say in the face of such needless senselessness? Lives lost, for no reason other than hate? How do you meet the world, how do you put one foot in front of the other and move forward with some sort of hope?

We all watched the survivors of Pulse through the stories on the news. Of course, we only hear the terribleness - the poor souls who succumbed to the stress, horror, and pain of the moment three years ago. Those are the stories that gain views and clicks from a population which devours atrocity.

Yet, so many more are living. They live, and love, and choose to thrive. In spite of the memory, in spite of the unknowable anger and confusion wrapped up in the shooter, in spite of their own trauma - they go on.

Let the name of the shooter fall away, out of your very consciousness. Refuse to allow him any more power. But don't forget Pulse. Don't forget those who are gone. Above all, don't forget to celebrate those who are still here - living, breathing, surviving.

That's what we can do.

-Wayne Gray

 

 

 

 

Men Are Made of Broken Toys

 

Men are made of broken boys
Who have gone and lost their toys
Who have gone and taken dear
The things that cause only fear

Here broken boys become hurting men
Who break their hearts again and again
Who once played at death games while alive
But now play at death's game to survive

It is easy to tell man from boy
It's in the eyes, a level of joy
Bright eyes light in a boy unbroken
They fade away in the man forsaken

Sad the lost boyhood is in memories
As is the joy taken in manhood's vagaries
Forgotten child's dreams lost in frightened cares
Found again only when the loved heart repairs

-MrM

 

   

 

The Snowflake

The water in your warm hand
Rises up into the cloud
Where it becomes the snowflake
That falls from the stratosphere
Made of dust, ice, light, and sky
Guided by fate and love back
To the longing of your hand

-MrM

 

 

 

Don't call me an abomination
Don't tell me I don't belong
Don't tell me that I'm worthless
or I live my life all wrong.

Don't judge me for who you think I am
Don’t tell me who I should be.
I'm just trying to live my life,
I'm just trying to be me.

I didn't wake up one morning choosing this path that I'm now on,
I wouldn't have chosen a path with all this ridicule and hate
This is the way I was born, I'm happy with who I am -
why can't you love me for that, instead of hating who I'll always be.

The choice was made for me before I was born,
yet you still blame me though I've done nothing wrong.
I love who I love why is that so wrong?
I will not apologize, for there is nothing to be sorry for.

Don't tell me that I'm wrong or that I don't belong
Don’t tell me I'm not the same as everyone else,
I'm just trying to live my life,
I'm just trying to be me.

- 1BrokNAngel

 

 

 

 

Vigil

 

Here we lie

beneath the sky;

once we trod,

you and I

above the sod

where they plod.

 

Naught could sate

consuming hate

in full flood

on that date,

our love in bud

smeared in blood.

 

Winds will blow

and time must flow

yet our names

men will know

by candle flames

in our frames.

-Parker Owens

 

 

 

Lessons

 

I would be

an instrument of peace

a channel for compassion and hope

enough to mend my brother's bones and ease his pain;

yet I must lean upon your shoulder

and learn of love from you

in your arms.

-Parker Owens

 

 

Festival

 

I celebrate the you and me,

those differences that set us free

to form ourselves without a mold

into the men we’re meant to be.

 

Now some run hot, and others cold,

some dress in vivid colors bold,

but there are those whose pride is mild

though no less strong, so I am told.

 

Ring out the bells in accents wild,

in variation stand beguiled,

rejoice in short, or fat or tall,

to every man be reconciled.

 

Let’s revel in the free-for-all

and dance, if you should feel the call,

for we were made exquisitely

and not as dull convention’s thrall.

- Parker Owens

 

 

 

 

in a quiet corner we find you, resting

pushed there by new headlines

old words bring to the fore, this sad anniversary

you are raised once more - bittersweet memories

of you all

those whose lives were so cruelly taken

much before your time

thoughts of you pass into mists of memory

where pain is a gentler thing

- Mikiesboy

 

 

 

Witness

 

The guilt of being alive is heavy

After the music stopped

I heard twenty, forty, fifty shots

We had just finished the last of our drinks

When the music stopped

And we heard twenty, forty, fifty shots

People crying and screaming, “I’m trapped.”

And being trampled and running for the door

Blood flowed, after twenty, forty, fifty shots

And the music just stopped

I saw the bodies and blood on the floor

Still, today, the guilt of being alive is heavy

-Mikiesboy

 

 

 

 

 

a translation for Jack Spicer

 

In my dream, it seemed

the easiest thing in the world –

I simply reached out and

with the tip of my index finger

resting on the side of the

cockpit fuselage

I kept the jet from crashing.

Why then is it so hard for God?

What part of His imagination?

fails humanity on a daily basis?

How many planes fall from His

sky each day…?

How many of His lives are lost

to guns each day…?

To hate each day…?

To bigotry, misogyny, homophobia,

to racism, sexism, genderism,

religiosity…?

To all the litany of “little” things

the mere brush of His finger

could do away.

 

I awake from my dream

wondering why my powers

of sympathy are

so much greater

than His?

But, and there are

always buts, stringing themselves

across wastelands of

human time, death

and misery….

But, why should we think

God cares? Is not that

the greatest human sympathy?

If we did not care about Him,

who would…?

Not nature; not Melville’s

heartless White Whale,

the not storms of the earth,

nor its fissures or sinkholes

swallowing our lives with

no regard for family, or

wives or children; or husbands

and parents – no.

What we care for makes us human,

and that includes the poor

helpless little entity

which we keep safe and warm

against monstrous reality,

the small little one

of our hopes and fears,

the one we call God.

 

To Him we attribute

that finger I dreamed of,

that one that saved lives

with the simple will of thought,

and acts with a sympathetic heart.

To him it would be as nothing

to ‘save’ everyone at all times,

and keep human misery a myth.

But…. The fact He cannot

proves His nonresistance every day,

in every way.

 

The Easiest Thing in the World

-AC Benus

 

 

 

Pulse Nightclub Shooting by Bill W 2022

Pulse Nightclub
Lights dim, it’s Latin Night
Couples dancing, much drinking, last call
But things change, shots ring out, bodies fall to the floor
Patrons scramble and cower in fear
Some grab phones, dial for help
Nine-one-one

Gay Patrons
Man has rifle and Glock
Shoots quickly, hate in eyes, no pity
No one knows him, what provoked this, why such anger?
Muslim man, angered by bombings in
Muslim countries, must stop
Seeks vengeance

Hostages
Taken in a bathroom
More shot, others injured, S.W.A.T. arrives
Some flee Pulse, S.W.A.T. tries to rescue the hostages
Two flashbangs distract Omar Mateen
He moves into hallway
Is shot dead

It’s over
Much relief, much sorrow
Fifty dead, more wounded, some injured
Memories will linger, the scars will long remain
Shooter’s wife arrested, stands trial
Acquitted, not involved
Time to heal

THE END

 

 

In Remembrance of the Fallen

Forty-nine dead.
Bleeding on the dance floor,
Barricaded in the bathroom,
Sacrificed like lambs,
Trapped in a kill pen of darkness and confusion.

We shall recite their names again and again – those 49 victims who lost their lives on a hot summer night in Orlando, where safe haven turned bloody massacre at the hands of a domestic terrorist ashamed of his own proclivities, who sought retribution by killing his reflection.

Forty-nine dead.
Stolen from their families,
Ripped from their loved ones,
Massacred like soldiers,
Trapped on a battlefield of terror and madness.

We shall never speak the killer’s name again – that coward who butchered our queer brothers and sisters, whose proclamations of religious radicalization betrayed deeper motivations of shame and hatred against a community who welcomed him.

Forty-nine dead.
Plucked from their existence,
Denied their final days,
Extinguished like candles,
Trapped inside tombs of grief and decay.

We shall sing their names again and again – those 49 humans who lost their lives on a hot summer night in Orlando, who were ambushed in a dance club turned slaughterhouse, who perished as martyrs for a cause they never enlisted in.

Let us remember their names; may they shine as beacons of light in a barbarous world.

 

 

Stanley Almodovar III, 23 years old

Amanda L. Alvear, 25 years old

Oscar A. Aracena Montero, 26 years old

Rodolfo Ayala Ayala, 33 years old

Antonio Davon Brown, 29 years old

Darryl Roman Burt II, 29 years old

Angel Candelario-Padro, 28 years old

Juan Chavez Martinez, 25 years old

Luis Daniel Conde, 39 years old

Cory James Connell, 21 years old

Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 years old

Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32 years old

Simón Adrian Carrillo Fernández, 31 years old

Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 years old

Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26 years old

Peter Ommy Gonzalez Cruz, 22 years old

Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22 years old

Paul Terrell Henry, 41 years old

Frank Hernandez, 27 years old

Miguel Angel Honorato, 30 years old

Javier Jorge Reyes, 40 years old

Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19 years old

Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30 years old

Anthony Luis Laureano Disla, 25 years old

Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 years old

Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21 years old

Brenda Marquez McCool, 49 years old

Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, 25 years old

Kimberly Jean Morris, 37 years old

Akyra Monet Murray, 18 years old

Luis Omar Ocasio Capo, 20 years old

Geraldo A. Ortiz Jimenez, 25 years old

Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36 years old

Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32 years old

Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35 years old

Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25 years old

Jean Carlos Nieves Rodríguez, 27 years old

Xavier Emmanuel Serrano-Rosado, 35 years old

Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24 years old

Yilmary Rodríguez Solivan, 24 years old

Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34 years old

Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33 years old

Martin Benitez Torres, 33 years old

Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, 24 years old

Juan Pablo Rivera Velázquez, 37 years old

Luis Sergio Vielma, 22 years old

Franky Jimmy DeJesus Velázquez, 50 years old

Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37 years old

Jerald Arthur Wright, 31 years old

                                                  

- MacGreg

 

 

 

Thank you