Can’t wait to see you all tonight in DC, for the final DC reading of my book Godless Circumcisions: A Recollecting & Re-membering of Blackness, Queerness & Flows of Survivance at the Potter’s House from 7-9pm. Info inserted after the jump.
The work is a tour de force if not for the sheer breadth of content, then for the refusal of its sweeping verse to comfort when comfort is not on the menu for the subjects at hand. It is more than unflinching—it unsettles, it bites, it scars, it lingers, and it loves, simultaneously in a language perfected by, common and accessible to those who have perfected the art of living while Black, BlaQueer or Queer….”
“…when did I realize, remember
that that Love was never meant for us,
was never packaged, beta-tested, advertised, intended
for little Black girls, little gaybies,
women and womyn, for dark people,
whose souls are lost where the sea Loves on the rocks…”
I hope you enjoy. Signed Copies of Godless Circumcisions are available here via Selz and regular paperback copies and e-versions are available via Amazon.
Godless Circumcisions is a witty and forceful study of race, sex and politics in contemporary culture. Personal and poetic, these essays, poems and biographical trysts disrobe issues central to the black, queer and working class existences. Wilson speaks fluently—fluctuating between academic authority, queer griot and matter-of-fact honesty—to issues of racial-sexual terror; masculine anxiety; how Black…
From My New Book “Godless Circumcisions: A Recollecting & Re-membering of Blackness, Queerness & Flows of Survivance” “It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”…
We look to them for guidance, nurturing, mother-work and rarely allow them to exist in shared spaces as publicly sexual and attractive people. The participants note this interesting axis between race/gender/gender performance where black fat and femme people are often remade into the earlier image of the black mammy, existing only to give and serve. These mammies often had children, but no one dare claim them as the object of their desire. Sex with a mammie was something to be ashamed of. She was there to be used, not loved. All too often we reproduced this sort of racial-sexual consumerism with our friends, our sex partners and our family members.
‘Tis the season to be honest right? Well here it is: I am a hoe. By hoe I mean that I am currently engaging in consensual non-monogamous relationships with men. I’m not in an open relationship. Things aren’t “complicated”. I am not searching for the one through trial and error. I just choose not to be with one man. This makes the “bringing home loved ones” clause of our holiday traditional a bit tricky because the way my phone is set up, who I ‘loved on’ last night may not be one I love on Christmas Day (or Christmas evening for that matter). With the looming expectation of marriage and grandchildren all on the horizon, I honestly cannot deal. So after careful consideration, I have decided not to bring a partner home for the holidays.
Tufts Students foreshadowing the racial violence and campus chaos that was once America’s best kept secret, and now a growing, public issue across the nation’s elite college campus.
I’ve long been conflicted by the naming and circus of World AIDS Day, but now I note it as a calling. It is a calling, a calling to think more Pozitively about HIV, AIDS and the compounding circumstances that effect HIV Survivors and those affected by it or in proximity to its acquisition. It’s a…
The saints tried to move the Earth itself in an attempt to save this boy from himself. Jamal sat in the middle of this circle of twisted divine intervention and waited. He waited for the shouting and the praying and the beseeching to end. He waited for the olive oil to stop dripping down his forehead, for the backs of those saints to straighten. He waited for his father’s wrath to subside, for the belt to take its last swing. He waited for silence.