It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt

There's No Snow Here...

Ok...so we are less than two weeks away from Christmas...and there ain't a hint of snow here...in Albuquerque...in the desert. And it just ain't right. I mean...come on..you can't expect Santa to deliver his goods from the back of a burro or some shit like that. I know that works in Mexico and all...but really...I live four hours north of Mexico...and I expect a jolly fat man skidding in on a sleigh pulled by nine reindeer with Rudolph's big ass nose a blinkin' and a flashin' (I think Santa included Rudolph to cut down on liability lawsuits...ever since he ran over Grandma and the litigation that followed). If we can put a man on the moon and Isaac Mizhrai in Target...then we can break out the snow machines and make New Mexico into a winter wonderland. I'm writing a letter to Governor Richardson just as soon as I finish this blog. He's making a run for Presidency...and just imagine how his image will soar if he can provide sledding hills for the kiddies just in time for the Yule season. The Jewish kids can enjoy the festivities too...because what's Hannukah without Santa Claus...some reindeer...and lots of challah.

Actually, I am very excited to be heading home for the holidays. Mom got hitched on Thursday...which happens to coincide with Grand Old Ladies Day...which happens to be the international celebration of my Mom's birth. I've been calling her birthday Grand Old Ladies Day since she turned 27 or so...when she hit 40 she threatened my life if I should refer to it as THAT DAY...well...seeing as how I'm much swifter then my Mom...I hurled a hand-made Grand Old Ladies Day card at her and broke out. I didn't expect the deftly hurled kitchen appliance that took me down before I could reach the front door. Mom may have just turned 49...but I wouldn't mess with her. She's old. She's mean. She's country. Basically...she's fierce. Happy Birthday Moms. And congrats on gettin' hitched...lucky number four....actually...Cordell is really cool. I don't know him very well...but he's been a great support to my Mom...he's been there for me a couple or three times...and he treats my Mom like a Queen...and after the shit she's been through...she deserves it.

My week in Minneapolis promises to be full of good times with friends and family. I'm looking forward to seeing Homely Dog and Andrea...who will again be playing Bed and Breakfast Extraordinaire. I'm doing a reading while I'm there to support my pal Peter Hutchinson...who is running for Governor (TIM PAWLENTY GOTS TO GO!) And then there is Christmas Day...I'm going to eat until my low intenstines rupture...and then I'm going to the Harris' and eat until my large intestines rupture...and then I'm going to get on airplane and head to New York...hopefully the pressurized cabin will push everything back into place.

I'm going to have to start planning more week long trips home as to opposed to the three or four day trips. I always end up tired, cranky, and feeling shitty because I didn't get to see all the folks I wanted to see. It's a curse having some of the most wonderful people in the world as your friends. But...if someone has to bear the burden...it might as well be me.

The chapbook is under way...it'll be done in just a couple of days...so stay tuned as to how you can get your copy...but for now...here's another poem:

Full of Grace

For Lissa M.

Hail Mary the streets are littered

broken hearts strewn across pavement

falling into cracked sidewalks

jig-saw puzzle mosaic of old newspapers

headlines declaring MOTHER WANDERING

calling out, dry-breasts screaming

open mouthed, heaving to take a single breath

Mother of God looking for her lost child

salvation guaranteed by virgin birth and memories

hushed by artificial sweetner

despite warning labels that it may cause cancer

eating away six years of remission

Blessed are thee amongst women that take crack pipe communion

desperately seeking absolution for sins never committed

each hit a tiny cross

laid on shoulders meant for piggy-back rides

and trembling with laughter

now narrowly bent

grief laying welts

raised awareness that Hell is what we make of it

Blessed is the fruit of thy womb that remembers soft embraces

tiny hands caressing face

smile etched behind the grey

matters unsettled loaning excuses to abandon reason

harrassing orders to sacrfice insanity on the altar

unsure if God is listening

or even cares

while angels whisper in each ear

hoping their message will be heard

Blessed are thy sons and daughters

when maternal instincts reach to pull death’s stinger

from skin bruised

while demons rip holes in security blankets

swaddling clothes innocence woven

insulating against the pain of separation

umbilical cord cut too soon

raw ends reaching for each other

craving to be reconnected

carrying to term the love of Madonna for child

Full of grace she offers comfort to those who need it

compassion birthing soulful healing

logic warring against emotion

praying for the hour of her own resurrection

reconnection with her own reflection

waiting she raises her arms in benediction

“Sleep well beloved and forgive my tresspasses as I forgive those I have committed against myself.”

Amen.

-

Brandon

Lacy

Campos

-

Eden

Praire, MN

-April 12, 2005

This Ain't Shakespeare...

Here's one more for you...a little more serious this one is....

This Ain’t Shakespeare

To be or not to be has never been the question

the reflection in the mirror answers in carefully broken boxes

Elmer’s glue and masking tape showing at the edges

that to be or not to be is a predetermination

an arrived at destination

outlined carefully by Congress and kids on the playground

DNA, nurture and nature, scientific nomenclature

That explicitly determines the species of our marginilization

FACT: On any given night 800 children sleep on

Minneapolis

streets

To live or not to live is the question, the rub

actively overcoming the sum  of our composite parts

the product of our actions multipled by our heredity, drugs, and cross addictions

are all denominators in the problem at the heart of this inquiry

this seemingly simple decision dipped in innocence that is only candy coating

corrding the American Dream

which wasn’t meant for men like me, men who see past the present into Orwellian reality

and Orson Welle’s history—the Aliens landed in 1492

took our leaders and gave us cell block pacifers

blankets, methamphetamine, and fire water

a War between World’s is raging

where

Jordan

meets

Camden

where

Lake Street

becomes the Berlin Wall

where Lyndale is an international border

where penthouses are built on

Chicago

where the poor are given marching orders

to start  a new trail of tears from the North Side and the South Side

to the city limits

suburban ghettos with invisible signs that still read: No Niggers, Gooks or Spics allowed

FACT: Within three days on the streets, even a child raised with the strongest moral values will turn to sex work to get his needs met

To thine own self be true

doesn’t mean shit

when living means economic brutality, the perpetuation of poverty

generations raised on commodity cheese

canned meat and peanut butter

powdered milk and WIC provender

where food in yellow boxes are brand name

and cereal only comes in bags

where to get a full time job

that pays part time wages

guarantees only EBT cessation

so dealing and banging become a means to feed the family

and fill private prison quotas

because this nation is still run by slave labor

inmates paid pennies an hour

to mass produce dollar power

FACT: Nearly 50% of young people living on the streets identify as gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender

Out damn spot

that has stained hands choking the life out of the future

kids that learn sometimes the streets are saner

than houses called homes where safety

is a stranger

and rare as full bellies

or I love you

where daughters tuck moms into bed at night

and newborns fall asleep to the lullaby of beer bottles breaking

taking care not to wake up daddy

because his bark is always followed by the bite

of leather, steel, cords on skin

branded Bacardi, crack, Phillips, meth, Smirnoff, weed

the man on the corner always has what you need

no money? He’ll take body in trade

cut you a deal: a gram for your soul

FACT: More than one million children are homeless in the

United States

Something wicked this way comes

dips claws into our hearts and minds

defines acceptance by what others think

so we stop thinking for ourselves

turn inside out to get attention

seeking approval from anyone willing to validate

self-hate keeping us from seeing

each of us is a perfectly imperfect being

made by the All Seeing

who broke the mold after each master piece

living art breathing vitality

each of us complete, whole in and of ourselves

made in His image and therefore unblemished

no matter what lies the mirror tells us

no matter the poison we’ve ingested

no matter the wrongs done to us or those we’ve committed

our only sin in not accepting

that we are loved without exception

without condition or reservation

FACT:  There are 20 million children living in poverty in the

United States

no man of woman born

was ever denied salvation

when he became willing

to work for it

honestly and openly tearing apart

spiritual infections

disinfecting psychic maladies

parasitic invaders draining

peace and serenity

on bended knee we ask

for the communion of the beatified fellowship

Holy Addicts and Sainted Alcoholics

spreading the word according to the gospel of Bill W.

each day receiving a reprieve and absolution

a simple solution

each step forward a step towards awakening

shaking off the collective hallucination

that what we see is how things have to be

that what we think is reality

that what we know is infallible

until we come to understand that there is a master plan

and a Master’s hand guiding us along a new and loving path

FACT: No man, woman, or child ever need go hungry or without love, never need be without shelter or comfort, never need know isolation or beg for acceptance. This a world of abundance, and ours is the gift to rebuild it, reinvent it, so that no one ever need walk in darkness. Fact.

-

Brandon

Lacy

Campos

-

Eden

Praire, MN

-30 June 2005

.1 Is Too Much!

So last night I competed in the monthly Poetry and Beer Slam at The District...and I was on fire. My lowest score of the evening...out of 30...was a 28.2...with my highest being a 28.9...I had the highest score of the tournament...and the highest score in every round...except the last...when some kid with mediocre talent beat me by one tenth of a point...just enough to make him the slam champion and to secure him a spot in the Individual Slam Champion Finals next week...and leaving me with only one more chance to get into the championships...tomorrow night...at the Blue Dragon. And dammit...I am going to WIN! Everyone from the waitress slinging drinks to the other contestants and judges said that I should have been the winner...but some slack jawed yokel with a soft-spot for a teen Dad...gave the cooter a 9.9...and since we had only three judges...instead of five...the top wanky score stood instead of being dropped as it should have been! Wanker! Yeah...I'm just a little bit bitter today about the whole thing...since I promised ya'll some poetry today...I am going to include one of the three poems I read last night for your enjoyment...I'm sure I'll have more to say tomorrow...but today I have to find out where Alonzo lives...sever his vocal chords...and make it look like a can opener accident....oh and lest I forget...I got the wonderful news that it's going to cost be another $240 dollars to get my car out of the shop...in addition to the $500 I've already paid. Praise Jesus. Thank God for payroll advances. My little $750 dollar volkswagen deal has now cost me $1500. Hey glory. Just what I needed for Christmas...another bill ;-). But enough of my complaining and belly aching...I'm actually in a darn tootin' good mood this morning (I took a salsa aerobics class...and the instructor is fine as hell)...so...on with the poetry!

Dirty

            For the freak in all of us

I am a freak

one of those retrofitted

1970s lava lamp and bead curtain freaks

booty shorts and go-go boots

gold fish in the heel

no underwear wearing

free ballin’ six times a day if I can get it freak

When I see a pair of Levi 501s

clung to an ass, snug fit in a tight crevasse, perfection

I stand at attention, salute the gluts

ready to ask and tell

I’m a techno 21^st century freak

with the Kama Sutra on my palm pilot

thirty-six different positions, fully illustrated

with detailed instructions just a click away

Give me a pair of pecs, chiseled cheeks on a disco sheik

making dirty dancing look like the polka

leavin’ no space in between for Jesus

I feel the urge to get down on my knees

for an extended prayer session

I’m an Easter Bunny freak hopping from basket-to-basket

sampling the goodies,

chocolate, caramel, and, on occasion, vanilla

melting on the back of my tongue

Turkish delights and English toffee,

and other sinfully delicious multi-national oral adventures

When I see amber waves of abs

rippling down towards a purple mountain

legs spread like the fruited plains

I start to feel downright patriotic

I’m a 24-hour freak, open on holidays and weekends with double coupon days and two for one sales

No shirt, no shoes, that’s alright with me,

But I do reserve the right to refuse service

Does my explicitness offend?

Well you should see the way I bend

When a fly guy walks by with a bulge in his pants so thick, you’d swear he was pregnant

if it weren’t for the location and my obvious anticipation

Pleasure so sweet I get a toothache just thinking about it

I believe hiding and rejecting our sexuality is a prime component in the spread of HIV

And other maladies that run rampant in our bodies

Minds irradiated by the “Moral Majority” teaching us that “gay sex” is a sin, letting shame in to co-opt our ability to defend our lives and ourselves

And sometimes I find myself self-questioning

surrendering to the twisted lies and ideals

the Ozzie and Harriet, Ward and June, Father Knows Best fantasies and fallacies

that try to steal our right to love and fuck whomever we choose

But, when I start to forget and give in to that shit

I pull out my mirror and say with pride

With a wink and sly smile

I am a freak.

-

Brandon

-

Minneapolis

, 5.31.03

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

It's Poetry, Man!

So there is a part of my life that I haven't really talked about too much right here on It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt...and that is ma vie comme un poet. Growing up I can't say that I was wowed by poetry. As a matter of fact, the poetry that I loved the most...which is no surprise now...was poetry in the vein of Shel Silverstein and Maya Angelou...the poetry that you could read outloud and instantly hear the rhytym behind the poetry. You knew the minute you read Boa Constrictor that this was a poem that was meant to be shouted irreverantly so that the thoughtful cadence behind the words would be manifest to all those within earshot. For those of you that have never picked up Where The Sidewalk Ends or The Light in the Attic you are truly missing out on some of the best lyrical poetry out in the world.

I wrote poetry all through high school as way to keep myself sane and to work through my budding queerness...and trying to reconcile what I knew of my sexual orientation with what the world was telling me about sexual orientation...and the fact that I was a queer boy that had no sexual attraction to woman but was very much in love with a woman. Figure that one out Dr. Kinsey!  But from 1997-2003 I basically retired my pen. I wrote a plenty in that time...but it was all political commentary...op-eds...that sort of stuff. And since I tend to have a very incidiary form of prose writing...I tended to be able to get what I wanted to published and out in the world...but that was not allowing me to get out some of the more below the surface shit I was dealing with out into the open.

Then one magical March, I joined a crew of friends on a short road trip to St. Cloud, MN. My friends Coya and Juliana (and a woman who was later to become my friend...Tatiana Ormaza) were reading in a show called Women Hold Up Half the Sky...a women of color spoken word performance for International Women's Day. The show blew me away. Here was poetry with which I was able to viscerally connect. It was written with beautiful rhythms...it was evocative...and it was poetry that spoke to my world and the world in which my friends were living and moving. In essence it was poetic form rooted in a person of color experience. And, indeed, Spoken Word is an oral poetic form with roots in West Africa...where griots...would travel from village to village sharing stories, histories, and news in poetic form...engaging the people...and keeping ancestory and history alive. This art form can be found in Negro Spirituals...in the poetry of Langston Hughes and other Harlem Renaissance writers...in the beat poetry of the 40s-60s...and in Spoken Word which sprung up en masse in the 70s and has gained great momentum since then. Oh yes...the most beautiful things come from the Mother...and spoken word is another of the gifts that Africa has given to the world.

In Minneapolis I was blessed to have some amazingly talented friends that were already experienced spoken word artists by the time I decided to throw my words into the ring. The poetry community, unlike in Albuquerque, is not centered around Slams and Slam culture...there are Slams in Minneapolis...but the poetry scene is centered around open mics, poetry shows, and excellent performances such as Bao Phi's Equilibrium show at The Loft Literary Center (www.loft.org).  Because of the non-competitive nature of the community in Minneapolis, I received much nurturing, encouragement, and opportunity starting out as a spoken word artist. And I have been blessed to have many wonderful people that have continued to support my work, invited me to perform, put together gigs for me, and in general been great great great fans. In Albuquerque, I have also recieved a warm welcome, although the furthest I've gotten in any Slam is the second round...I would have won that last slam if I hadn't gone over time by 1 minute...FUCK THE RULES...sorry...had a flashback.

For those of you that have had a chance to engage with my poetry...you'll be pleased to hear that I am going to finally put out a chapbook. The chapbooks will be available December 13th...and will sell for $10. One hundred percent of the proceeds from the first 250 chapbooks sold will go to YouthAction to support our kick ass work to radically alter the political landscape of this country from the ground up. We are working in partnership with young people across the country for a new world centered in peace and justice. For those of you that aren't familiar with my poetry...well... I'll close today's blog with a couple of my pieces...you can also find more of my work on the web at www.calacapress.org as part of the collection "Under What Bandera"...also you can check out Queer Codex: Chile Love...which is available through Evelyn Street Press.

PS I will include some poems tomorrow. Friendster Blogs is being dumb again.

It's Time to Start Livin'....

Basically...since leaving Minneapolis...I've been exisiting on the edge of things. I stepped into this time warp called Albuquerque...where everything moves just a little bit more slowly...and I came to an almost complete stop. Part of that revolves around my role here at YouthAction. I was hired to come down here an d maintain...keep things on track...make sure we at least are stabilized...help the staff get to some firmer footing...aim for forward movement but stasis is better than backsliding...well...I went one further and pretty much applied that to my life. And that really is no way to live. Stasis...as Tony Kushner so vividly declaims in his Pulitzer Prize winning play Angel's In America...is the opposite of living. Stasis is death. Only the dead do not move. The living must maintain constant motion or we are just place holders and occupying precious living space. 

My life here, for the most part, would bore Jesus. I mean, really, I work and I watch movies. That's about it. Up until last night, after a firm highly diva-esque lecture by my colleague Jose, I hadn't gone to the gym in two months. Now...for all ya'll that know me...the gym for me has been a little bit  like church for me in the last nine months. But after leaving the office...I could hardly think about getting in my car and heading over to the gym...and that should have been warning sign number one. When I stop working out...something is for sure wrong in my head. When I start to isolate...WATCH OUT...and I have been doing all those things for a while...and ladies and gentleman...that is the first and last step towards that frightening thing we addicts like to call a relapse supreme.  But something happened yesterday that caught my attention...I got a letter in the mail. I got a letter...from me! Oh yes...I wrote myself a letter some eight months ago in a group session with Ross...that poor big girl black woman trapped in that small skinny white man's body...and yesterday I got it in the mail. I was able to read about where I was four days after entering ye old rehab center...and man oh man have I come a long way baby...and man oh man...did I see how short of a trip it is right back to where I was. The Lord works in mysterious ways...and sometimes He uses the United States Postal Service. Hey glory.  So last night, I stopped at Target and bought a stylish new gym bag with a lovely new lock for my gym locker, I hopped in my motor vehicle...hit I-25 at top speed...and spent exactly 33 minutes at Defined Fitness. Come on ya'll...it was my first time back in two months...I wasn't trying to pull nothing. Tonight I am going to a spinning class (Lord...you said you wouldn't lay any burdens on me that I can't bear)...and I'm going to step up my step work...my addict my be out doing pushups...but Goddammit...so am I.

Roy Orbison LIVES!

On Friday night I received a summons from Eric and Christopher to attend them at the Albuquerue Social Club. I was terribly frigthtened. You see...I'd heard great and horrible rumors about Albuquerque's "members" only gay bar. Two of my good friends were kicked out of the bar once for not possessing memberships. I thought to myself...what in elitist hell am I going to do in the ASC...and why the heck does Eric have a membership?

As I passed through the doors of the social club and was greeted by the world's oldest living lesbian...I felt as if the Queer Gods on high had transported me back to the year 1954. I checked to make sure that I had on at least three pieces of clothing from the appropriate gender, and I flicked a nearby light switch on and off just to make sure all was in working order in case of a police raid. As I wound my way through a gaggle of bearded white men...some doing some very public fondling in a bar that was way too bright for all that to be going on...I scurried quickly to Eric and Christopher...noting that our little table of blessed melanin was the only table with any flavor in the whole joint.

Eric and Christopher were not so slyly trying to get me out of the house since they'd read my blog and knew that I was probably moping in the dark, with the heat turned off, eating endless bowls of cereal and crying into my milk. And I am very grateful to them for that. I'm just as greatful to the two housewives that stumbled into the social club and began throwing down old school for us as they finally expressed their same gender love for one another. The big woman in the hot pink skin tight onesie quite literally made my day as she shucked and jived across the dance floor moving from lesbian to gay man...and finally settling on....much to my surprise...Roy Orbison. Yes...Roy is alive and well...living as an F to M tranny in Albuqueurque, NM where he is putting the moves on the down home dykes.  It was great to see Roy out in the world...even if it was in this run down piece of queer nostalgia. We sat there imagining the pick up lines he was using with the ladies...something like..."You know...I used to be a Vegas headliner....had my own show and everything....can't tell you who I was...but it wasn't Elvis...and it rhymes with Toy Robison...," and then with a wink...he and his lady for the night would shimmy off behind one of the fake Christmas trees...and Roy would give her a personal performance of Pretty Woman.

I didn't stay very long that night at the Social Club. I left the bar knowing that I'd left at the right moment. I'd seen a little glimpse of our pre-Stonewall History...and I felt all the more appreciative of the strides we have made as a community. So, with a smile, and checking to make sure none of my orifices had been violated by the bear daddies...I walked into the cool desert night, got into my car, and headed home.