Voice of Consciousness

I went to the We Are Orlando vigil last Tuesday, June 14, 2016 at the Center on Human and Civil Rights in Atlanta, Georgia. I wrote this poem after listening to a speech by Simone Bell, the first African American lesbian to serve in a U.S. state legislature. She was an inspiration before I heard her speak, much more afterwards. iii. inspiration i am not so good with these words: words of inspiration weigh heavy on me. me just want to see myself in these vigils, vigils across the world tell me somebody is listening, listening but can they hear the unspoken words? words matter says the sign. signs up with their names plastered in black ink, ink running wild to tell us of Devin Diamond another black transwoman killed, killed by “blunt force trauma" body burned beyond, beyond recognition how are we to stand tall, tall in our fear or at all? all of the rhetoric subsides as your voice rises above, above, high

Last Monday, I was wrapped in grief. I still am. That evening I went to Making Space: A Community Writing Group for Activists, Healers, and Everyday Heroes at Charis Books and More at the encouraging of a dear friend of mine. After doing a  free write on my feelings surrounded the naming of the victims, I elected to go deeper, motivated the following quote by John Hodgman that was given to the entire group. For once stories were not a comfort.  ii. stories “Stories make sense when so much around us is senseless, and perhaps what makes them most comforting is that while life goes on and pain goes on, stories do us the favor of ending.” — John  Hodgman if stories do us  the favor of ending, i must be the storyless because this hurt has no end Alejandro Tevin Luis will live  forever in my mind, bodies burning bright in the Florida nightclub air i can still smell  the smoke of the gun i can still hear the ring of the shot i can still see 

I lived in Florida for four years as an undergraduate at the University of Florida, from August 2001 until July 2005. Pulse was barely celebrating its 1 year anniversary when I left Florida; I never went. But, I partied in Orlando’s black gay and lesbian clubs many of times. Finding them in the pre-Facebook era was difficult, a task only for the most dedicated and the most desperate. Pride month was especially special for us because there were pop-up parties all over any city. It was queer folks' time to celebrate, to dance, connect, and hopefully meet that special someone (or, at least, someone to play with). As a wandering poet and an organizer with the Pride Community Center of North Central Florida and for my own personal gain, I regularly went to Prides in Jacksonville and Tallahassee, and I attended Pride and Black Pride in Orlando at least once. To say the least, in my college years, I was a club "head" to the fullest. I spent 2-3 nights a week in a club, somew