Perhaps that’s what all human relationships boiled down to: Would you save my life? or would you take it?

- Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison (via alinaandalion)

(via poeticdreams)


Go support this dude and his fresh ass pants. Treat yo self! Im telling you theyre comfy as fuck. These are the anti-pants. They cover you up like pants, but you feel free as hell. Anyways…go support and get pants.

Thank you thank you thank you!
These pants are made specifically for people who live Tumblr.  Yes I meant “live.”

Grist of Bees (in progress)

My grandfather was a black leather recliner
every night he returned home from a 12 hour work shift

My nine cousins would fall at his feet
to greet him before scrambling away,

But I would settle into his lap
a brown eyed, brown boy
laughing at the same TV shows he did

My grandfather was a mechanic
and a charm of hummingbirds all at the same time

He was what it looked like
when love clocks in even after it clocks out.

My first great love
came as a grist of bees
a heavy hum
I only felt in my once winged
feet and tangled chest,

You see,
my chest has always been a honeycomb
it’s sweet, but there are holes in it

Holes I tunneled into an exploration
of all the ways I care for myself
you need holes to breathe,
and sometimes I use holes
to tell stories,
to make love,
to bury what I know
to dig up what I don’t

Like all the ways both
my father
and first great love
could make a hive look like a clenched fist
and wring the honey out of me

The first time I
saw the furl of their brows
was because of
all the other relationships I carried,
one mentioned the gay kind,
the other said the family kind,
Asking to be loved by them
meant asking to be judged at the same time

The next time I felt
the tension in their wrists
was ten years old
when he punched me in the leg like a sledgehammer,
Was last year
when he body slammed a boy like a jackhammer

You see, how they are so close
they begin to sound like the same man?

When I finally heard
my father’s voice escape my lover’s mouth
it was the language-
the fluency in “fuck you”-
that made me more familiar than flinch

but it stung me dry just the same

and then there are all the times
I have started over with the both of them,
a collapse of all the pretty parts
into a burning thing we thought we could hold on to
and it is breathtaking

-You would think
we mimicked our relationships
after the births of stars-

But what happens
when a star has nothing left to burn?
You get a quiet explosion
or a loud explosion
or a violent explosion
or a black hole
or a black leather recliner
somehow always ending in explosion

And what a stellar nursery of men I have loved
in all my gravity and give

Then I remember
that my grandfather was not my father’s blood
my father’s real father was a stone
who only taught his seven sons how to roll

My father is a heavy wheel
Spinning a groove in the road
that my ex lover falls in line with all too well

And I have always been nothing more
than a hive of black honey
who could love an old man
home from work
Too heavy for the hummingbirds
to catch me,
but always right in line
for the stone to strike
to break
to form another hole
for the grist of bees to make a home out of
and all I can do is breathe
because sometimes,
you need holes to breathe