Greetings family! The circle of griots at BlaQueerFlow are excited to announce a call for submissions. We are interested in poetry, prose, fiction, short stories and art. We are also increasingly interested in book /film/music reviews that touch upon the themes and topics of concern to the AfroLatinX & Queer/Woman of Color communities. Please note…
“Some of them were men. Some of them more boyish. Others, simply *Them. They all feed the same, regardless of gender identity or biological designation. They feed slowly, with consent, until it becomes clear that your slow-waltz toward assisted suicide will kill them, too. that is when they wake. that is when they leave. that is when they lash out at your inability to be sweeter to the taste. to last longer. to be softer, yet stronger. to be plentiful (to them) yet scarce (to your self). that is when they drag you, from hell to home, until there is no difference in the burning. this is when they must die, before you do. but to kill them, but you must re-member pieces of yourself and put down your own mis-identifications. you must remember that you are too strong to die from their presence or absence. you must remember that your purpose belongs to you and the cosmos, not their ego or inclinations. you must remember that you deserve to wake and sleep smiling. you must remember. you must. you must. you must. remember you, before the high and breaking of your heart. you must remember that their death is not your own.”
“a setting adorned with the souls of children and babes disguised as men with unheld hands, course over brass buttons,
stinking of cigarettes and reefer -“
Writing is about (un)becoming who/what we know to be true about ourselves, about our politics, about our desires, about our needs, about our fears, about our “us.” Writing invites us to be and come into the presence of our highest and lowest and truest selves. Through the written word, we are positioned in the face of our thoughts, in the bosom of our (de)constructed realities, in the confines of the spaces we create and (de)stabilize. Writing is about being and coming to truth, and also creating new truths, despite alternative and purported facts.
“I loved him in a secret place. It wasn’t hiding. It was somewhere, some where, some place I couldn’t put my tongue to but I knew it existed. I didn’t know where it was but I knew it was. I knew because it was a soul-truth. Not one of those truths where your tongue just does a few tricks and flips and clicks and some sort of phrase comes out that sounds good enough. Not that. Not that type of love. That type of meaningly notion of love that has no power. Has no blood or sweat behind it. That type of love that wasn’t paid for with nothing but time. Time is cheap. Time is going to be spent anyway. Spent with them* or spent with just you doing something else meaningless in this world of meaningless activity masquerading around as productivity when it is really just capitalism doing what capitalism, running you down and making you feel about your own euthanasia, that’s what it do! I’ll tell you true, now, just listen here. THAT. IS. NOT. THE. WAY. I LOVE(D)?. THEM*.”
23. Weaponizing your new-found social justice lingo; to cover up your fuckshit
24. Shading folks for doing in public; what you do in the dark
25. Acting like all discomfort and disagreements are violence
26. Acting like you in love when you know it’s just lust
Growth. It is most often painful. New parts of you sprouting from once smooth, thick, impenetrable surfaces. Growth is violent. It breaks what once was. It is a rupture of structures, of surfaces, of composition and plans. Growth is violence, but not all violence is bad. Unless of course, you’d rather be the seed than…
I wield no knife at my throat, nor pills at my bedside. But I reserve to right to die, when living best serves those who seek to devour me.
o calmly wild;
there’s pure ecstasy in the way You see (through) me
the way You rip me apart in the name of edification
how do You find purity in my despair?
and I heard the lamentations of a million hearts
regretting life and crying for the grave,
and I saw the Negro lying in the swamp with his face
and the northern cities with his manhood maligned and felt
“The life that remains. The life that continues to defy certain removal and dismemberment of self from self from his/herstory from family from truth from gods from us–of old, new, now and tomorrow–we celebrate, that even still our death has not been won, paid for, laid claim to. We celebrate that at least, for us, the power to die remains the province of the flesh hold the beating heart in its crevice…”
“The revolution will cost all that we have. It will cost our lives, with the ever-elusive promise, that we might transcend the products, producers and midwives of violence we have become…”
By Vernon Jordan, III i. raising me I hope was easy. Like the Sun of a spring day, the ease of a Fall breeze; grandma, I remember you teaching me to wash my childish, brown hands, my boney coal elbows, and knees. You carried your skin like a rope of jewels ‘round neck —…