Please consider giving a donation – any amount $5 to $5000 – to my Winter Writer Survival Fund
(Donations of $100 will get an honorable mention in my first published book of poetry, as sponsors).
And because I am not one to raise money without writing something – here’s a little poem
Now that I am poor,
He doesn’t call anymore.
Now that I am thick,
He won’t touch my.
Click on this button
Don’t eat. Don’t sleep. Don’t work. Don’t play.
Stay up. All day. Pray, that gay away.
Called my grandma,
Her house flooded.
“Why, well, you didn’t have to live in a tent for very long?”
After you threw me out – at eighteen – I’d done nothing wrong.
October, November, December, January, cold months, in singing tent songs.
Being gay. Being being. That’s enough, for Jehovah et al.
“You made it all up! Your grandfather never did that.”
Only wrote what I remembered. No speculation. No deviation.
Why did my room have two beds?
There are no words left to describe how happy I am,
to have learnt that my grandmother’s house had flooded,
and my grandfather yelled at me as water – soft & gentle – broke his house, and this curse.