Pirate-Daddy

offering cycles of perfect imperfect repetition,

giving new shows as new light paints colors warmly on every surface.

There was a sunset.

I sat and soaked it in until my feet

went numb with cold.

I joked, I laughed, I loved,

I played music.

I was reminded of special moments

even as I lived so fully in the present in such an intense way,

it wove something into the fabric of me.

I've crafted a goal to honor the beauty of that light,

of that stretched-out moment.

I want to pluck each color from the sky and the water,

and curl them around my fingers.

I want to paint them into something new,

to knit them into a sweater.

I don't know how to knit.

Once, when I first saw the Milky Way,

I used to knit long rectangles

and call them scarves.

And call them gifts.

But now I am "doing it right,"

trying to *really* learn how to knit.

It's futile to try to capture something fleeting and

live within it forever,

but I am a photographer. I paint with light.

I love light.

I love how beautiful light makes everything else.

I am going to honor that light that filled me with

joy in the reflection of its majesty.

There was a sunset.

I don't know how to feel within its rays today.

I let my heart take in the way it lit up the tree

before me, already a very beautiful shade

of autumn.

Caramel, cinnamon, butterscotch, amber, honey...

at least the glow of the sun has made it vibrate,

made it hum, harmonize, resonate.

There is so much I can't fix,

I have only now,

within this moment

spotlit in cold fire.

And I sat down to write my

appreciation as the sun set

from me on this day.

Starting in the middle when I don't know I'm starting.

Seeing the green in my colorless ideas before I sleep

Checking books for the Atlas that will unburden my

bent shoulders

Taking time to pause, to breathe... [Breathe.]

Remembering being disabled means being human,

Remembering being human means needing to

accommodate the things I need.

Remembering I need things.

Glad to feel grateful today for the moments in my life that

reminded me I'm worthy and valuable, just how I am.

Tis harder to feel through the tism,

through the lessons people have been teaching me

without my having asked them to.

They got a discount for not counting me,

and I am too numerous for that.

No definitive answers, but ample questions.

It's been a gift to be able to put down so many of them:

questions I don't have to manage finding answers for

when I haven't been asked.

Imperfectly being here to focus on accomplishing

accomodating myself, taking one step at a time.

Living through a grieving season in a field sowed with griefs.

I learned to detach enough to love them and love myself

instead of taking on too much.

So many uncontrollable things I was taught to try to control,

But I can't.

I can't make decisions for other people, especially for

questions they have chosen not to ask.

It's a very hard lesson, but I've been doing better at learning it.

Offering gentle and loving words from my experiences

and then letting them float away in the light breeze,

seeds offered from my place in this field, not for me to tend.

Letting hope in, winding up through the cracked cement,

holding the parts of me together.

Aiding me, adding strength, offering new community where

other seats have been vacated and left vacant.

New balms where recurring reminders hurt too much.

Making space to make plans, to go on new journeys,

and to celebrate my worth, imperfectly.

do the words land on the page like velvet?

Hot pressed paper smooth surface

pressed into your cold hands:

black paper white waterproof archival ink

carving out my deepest secrets that I

put into words for you to read, to feel,

to experience before they get a chance to dry

Does the wetness I feel stick to my words like

dark, amber honey late in the summer heat,

late in the evening?

Hot, sticky, viscous, syrupy words

trailing from my mouth

to your ears...

Can you hear the deep sweetness,

the earthy tambour thumping rhythmically

in my uneven lines, in my uneven breath?

I want to paint a very detailed picture for you

with personalized phrases glinting in the setting sunlight,

stitched into cloth stretched and held tightly in tired hands.

Multimedia compositions expressing

big, bold, textured feelings

for your every sense to delight over,

guiding you to feel what I feel as I feel you

using my art to reflect and reverberate

as we love each other

as a miracle and a masterpiece.

There is a quiet in the heart of this storm

interrupted by breathing, by moving air, by body heat.

Uncharted weather patterns causing small ripples

and touches in water that reaches up to

barely caress aching skin

Tracing the currents, tracking each wave

as they lap at other wetness before

breaking against a very tender shore.

in case you reach out

so that you will have warmth from me.

I have no room for rage of my own

in a very biting clutter accumulated around me,

but I have ample love and spices

to sprinkle into the air between us.

I will gather you a bouquet

of lavender, eucalyptus, lemongrass,

tiny purple violets with heart-shaped leaves,

large sunflowers painted with sunset,

plush mosses you can stroke your hands across,

and thyme, the most precious thing

we never have at hand.

Sewn together with sticky dew under an eclipse,

bracing against the hint of a chill around the corner,

fanned before you to make you light up at the

colors and scents and textures lovingly presented for you.

I cannot fix all of our problems,

although I day dream about trying.

What I can do is see you and love you,

right here and right now,

for all the things that you are.

And I do.

Every time you read this, we have already met.

But when I'm writing it, we've already met.

I've met you. I *know* you.

We have several firsts, and that list grows

and grows.

So many first times between us.

To know a new beginning, one must get to know Time.

I think...

Is that too ambitious? Tell me later.

Because we live in Queer Time,

with its repetitions, and firsts, and seconds.

Its stops and starts, its swirls, its spirals.

You painted a world where the sky touched the sea,

allowing your moon to pull the tide close,

to be swept up in an embrace, endlessly reaching.

I saw recently that the pull of the tide is always up

but the world moves beneath it

and the waves are from the ground moving.

The reaching is constant.

To know Time, one must get to know Space,

because they, too, are woven together.

But I know Space.

If I know anything, it's space.

I know the absence of it, when I cannot have it for myself.

I know the press of it, when taking it for myself is

confined and compressed by the world,

or by people too scared to notice they are afraid to share an inch, or a centimeter.

And I know how Space feels. I feel her all the Time.

I stretch across her, reaching like oceans

to feel what pulls me

to find the pieces of me that are not stored with me

anymore.

Space knows me, too.

And she knows how much I cling to

the Times I get to be in the Space

that fills where I am missing pieces,

that fuels what I need to keep growing,

that feels so right I can barely hold it

as it pulses within me and from me like lightning.

Incandescent

Exhilarating

Attuned

Resonating a very old note through new strings

as we pluck them with our desire to spin ever closer

together.

In some ways, it's completely the same.

My love is my love, love.

I send it to you and roll you up in it.

It grows as it goes

reaching you, tip to toes,

twirling in your hair, booping your nose,

settling in your pockets with fluff and a receipt.

It is precious, but also plentiful,

blending with the fibers of your shirt

as it envelopes you.

In some ways, I think it's better.

The ways we reach out to each other,

appreciating each other proudly, brightly, loudly, softly,

more ways we build with time,

like a very seasoned pot with broth

added to, day after day,

in a perpetual soup never leaving the stove.

We added too much lemon once,

and all of our garlic was teal for a month.

The ways I love you are colorful like that,

and surprising.

There is nothing like the way we value our time together;

songs have been written about it.

I don't think most couples could handle it.

Not that I want us to be in pain for valor,

but I think longevity does need strength

and effort.

Dedication.

Maybe I have everything skewed in a way that

isn't helpful, based on the combined experiences

in my life,

but that's all I can pull from; it's all I've got.

The real differences to being in-person,

face to face,

are the unpolished between-moments.

Accidentally leaning on hair, elbowing,

spilling something, choking on air,

running out of words to say to describe

what you're going through,

being overwhelmed by the mess.

Being able to help apply a bandage

or open a pesky container.

Being there when your eyes are still closed,

for the entire universe of you

I get to experience before you touch your phone.

The unmatched treat of getting to touch you

and have you feel it directly from my fingertips

instead of from the words and wishes I send you.

I can't say if this or that is better.

This is the love story we have,

and I'm soaking up every drop of it.

It means everything how you want to watch

me as I grow with you and into myself,

just how I cherish seeing who you become.

It's a beautiful journey we're on,

and I love exploring it with you.

Honestly, I'm not even sure it's possible to really

scream–scream without consequences.

Not in a city, not on a train, definitely not on a plane.

Maybe you can scream in a car, but it depends

where the car is and if anyone can hear you and

respond in some way.

I have a movie about teenage depression and...

other things

I used to love as a younger person

where Glenn Close silently screams,

but there's something so less satisfying about

silently screaming.

I know my throat won't complain in the same way after,

in a way that validates the way I need to

express myself

beyond what is normally OK to everyone else.

I need it and I

can't

have it.

I can't do it; I can't get there.

Because I'm being compressed,

considerate,

consumable.

Something about the air being so wet and hot

I keep thinking I have a fever.

Something about your Internet and

phone being down

that feels like an attack against me,

which–of course–it isn't.

But it makes me want to fucking scream

(although I won't.)

And so I just shuffle along

waiting for it to become Thursday instead.

I try to fill my world with trans art.

This is a simple statement, but

it is a radical act.

There is constant pressure from

disgustingly powerful people

to contain us and our expression

so we will be as ignorable as possible.

But it is impossible.

We must be impossible to ignore.

We exist, radically.

Hearing trans stories told in trans voices

is an exuberant experience for me.

Tell me about how he loves the

freedom he feels when he swims.

Tell me how much he notices his breath or what

it's like to make a piano resonate.

Show me how you tap dance, breakdance,

weave, paint, pose, pray.

Let me hear your unique voice as you sing,

and let me hear you sing again tomorrow

and the day after that, especially if your

sound continues to shift and expand and change.

Your words, your art...

You encourage me to keep growing myself

and finding my path to a deeper understanding

of who I am.

I am not made in your image

but you do help me to imagine myself

more

and I thank you,

thank you

thank you

for what you share with the world.

I hope my creations, my words, my voice

return to you in their resonance.

We are all on these shores, trying to survive

and we are all becoming, becoming, becoming.

If you help me love myself more by showing how

you love yourself more, I want to let that

resonate through me and envelope me

and take me on my journey

like a friend, like a sibling, like inspiring myself

by seeing myself in you and your art.

Our threads are connected, carefully woven,

strengthened by being spun together.

There are systems against us, but we are here.

Our existence is beautiful and radical, and

we will continue to be here because

we have always, always, always been here,

queerly, creatively, collectively

living and reaching towards our unique

actualization of ourselves,

our most vital creation.

There's too much to say, and I haven't been able to

make my words fit the shapes of my thoughts

as they press against the inside of my ribcage.

I know I'm putting too much pressure on myself

to find the perfect way to describe how it felt

to watch the surprise on your face

as you tasted what I sent you,

and I don't think words exist that can describe

how it felt to watch the surprise replaced with

ecstacy

for possibly the most perfect gift

I will ever give in my lifetime.

(Best believe I am going to attempt to chase

that high with other gifts even if I never hit

another bullseye that well again.)

Trying to not pressure you as I feel other

friendships continue to peel themselves

away from me, which is their right, but,

fuck, it hurts every time anytime it happens.

Why does it keep happening?

None of that is your weight to bear

and yet here you are, allowing me to bare

Myself

again and again

and you don't flinch away.

Instead, you reach for me, and I love you for it.

You asked for my draft, my incomplete words

because you found them precious.

You took time to listen to me when you were busy,

which is a very kind thing to do,

and you do it again and again.

I've shared with you multiple shames that would

lose me other people, that have lost me other people.

And here you are, still reaching for me,

still offering me more.

You offer me so much I feel greedy to keep asking

but you invite my thoughts, my questions, my offers.

You meet me where I am at, figuratively speaking,

and we are just getting started?

That's wild.

I don't want it to ever stop.

Passionately, ardently, affectionately,

Yours

where the tall grasses tickled my knees

and I smelled honey and fruit on the warm summer breeze.

When I looked up, someone was there.

They looked welcoming, so I took one step

into the green of the forest where two rabbits lept

motes of light caught my attention as I crept

towards this vision of beauty.

It furrowed my brow when he left my sight

I rushed in deeper, searching for them with all of my might

for I yearned for this being and my chest felt tight

desperate to catch them for... some... reason?

I've turned round and round many times now,

but there's no clear path in any direction.

If there was ever a person, ze led me here

and now I cannot find zem again.

I am distraught and dismayed

to have my advanced declined

as ze seemed a very appealing man?

Or Pan? Or nymph, or spirit?

You, who brought me here, and turned me around

as you turned me away?

Please

I do not know your name

I only wish to see you arise from the fog once more.

Kyuramen

I had an encounter like this once, in Tokyo.

Actually twice; I had to go back for more before

I left

and I haven't been able to feel the same way since.

Some nights have been nearly as good, sure.

But when you held my multifaceted needs

in your yinyang depths

and took care of me until I was sated?

The way you looked at me before we parted

and told me I was worthy of a prize?

I felt warmed so deeply.

You were everything I needed, and even a little

more

looking at you

once per moment isn't enough,

and I have to look at you two, three, four

times per each blink of an eye

in order to sate my thirst as I

drink in the sight of you?

When I like you, like you, like you

so deeply and easily that

liking you makes it easier to

like myself?

The word both loses meaning and

inherits more nuance than it can

afford in taxes,

selling off spare k's to keep the estate

of its lie by omission afloat.

Being cringe on purpose until

I've launched myself so

squarely into being sincere

that my core is pixelated.

A very noble cause:

shaping the fullest honesty

I can manage with words

meant to thread a needle

you're too exhausted to see

with thread strong enough

I don't have security clearance

to know it existed.

I bet a thread like that could

make one hell of an embroidery.

In some ways, I see myself when

I spend time seeing you,

seeking you whichever way

you permit me.

Anyone who tells you

"it goes the other way"

is selling you something from

The Estate, and you don't want it.

There's a whole world out there

to keep each other safe from

that doesn't understand

Please Excuse: Creation Silly

Who picks a peck, as quick as that,

when peckers pick a puckered place?

Playing apace: pecs pecked with lips

or speckled with spent peckers? This.

But if it's tits-up for tits and

pecs are picked:

sculpted, healed, treasured

with or without nips

and a very precious chest

presented? Best!

Best believe it will be caressed,

pressed, regarded, signed,

traced, eyed, beheld,

held, scratched, bitten,

adored, revered, bound,

It has been a very long day

Longer than almost any other day

Maybe if I left New Zealand and went directly to Hawaii

I would have a longer day

But it would hopefully not feel as

Humid and

Surprisingly violating

And

Distressing

All at once. Like I said:

A very long day.

But I can cling to the brightest spots,

From least to not least:

A colorful duster and shy, hesitant compassion

A skillful tongue and calm under the

Weight of the world on my shoulders

Straining my carry capacity

(I'm not even playing death stranding this year.)

My friends and family have surrounded me

with remotely-implemented love and support

that has been entirely vital for my

white-knuckled ability to get through today

And when I needed to scream

And I could not scream,

There was a proffered hand

I could bite down upon.

For that gift, "thank you" is insufficient.

I've never taken such a long path to get to

the same fucking spot

like a rickety mobias strip that costs too much

and has overpriced, microwaved strombolis.

(At least this time, there were strombolis.)

And I would do it again