BlaQueerFlow

lets see where this goes.

Still He Resisted: Black Boy Beaten In DC

Even now, even here, even under blow and gun we resist.   Still he resisted when they stopped him without cause.   Still, he resisted when they snatched him from his dog.   Still, he resisted, arms folded behind his back. Still, he resisted, eyes burnt bright with pepper. Still he resisted, punch to the front of his head.   Still he resisted, as support only came in word and eye.   Still he…

Moonlight: A Necessary Re-Sighting

Photo: Tabias Olajuaown, By Billy Malloy

Moonlight was not on my radar, at first, but perhaps this is what happens when moon’s approach each other. Perhaps they are blinded to the presence of another orbital being. Perhaps the siting is so queer, so rare, that it seems mundane; a simple reflection of oneself in the circular nature of life. I had heard the title, perhaps seen the preview, but it…

Sister, Don’t Die

She struck me, standing there in her full beauty. Simply dressed, hair pulled back but loose and free, a feat only black hair can do without chemical castration. She struck me, deep, standing there on the corner; the lights of the library and ongoing traffic reflecting off her blue-black skin and eyes. It was as if all creation was finding proof of its existence in her being, in her presence, in…

They All Must Die: The Ones I Leave Behind

Death is the cool of winter unraveling roots and leaves of beings who have outlived their welcome, but done their duty none-the-less. Death is the threshing floor; it clears and it sweeps. However, death does not discard. It remembers. It recalls. It tills all that was, into what will, and must be. Death is a reunion, a homecoming. There are pieces of me held by the dying, that cannot be…

The Horn (a poem)

by Jordan Barnes

how many horns must I withstand before I can hear Louis? fret not I sit, thankful in silent respect, but still waiting – waiting for the horn to remember its place, its wondrous place! 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 – it forgot it belonged on Earth. The horn…

What good do your words do If they can’t understand you Don’t go talkin’ that shit Badu, Badu

On & On, Erykah Badu

  Writing is a practice of breaking, becoming and believing. Sometimes I run from it. Sometimes I hide under my blankets in passive rebellion. Other times I sit at my screen blankly or reject it for my journal and, instead of writing, I scribble. I scribble things that I have to do.…

Stream of Loving Consciousness

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…