In Memory, Little Brother

I want to eat ice cream and drink coffee until it all comes back up

surely some despair could be emptied out with all the caffeine and chocolate

i want to drink my self numb 

take the edge off your loss 

even the tiniest little bit 

for an hour or a minute

i want to scream until my throat bleeds 

punch things until bones break 

and though self destruction is in our family bones

no amount of sacrifice can bring you back

if only i could balance a piece of flesh and soul against your resurrection

gone forever

forever rings in my ears like judgment now

a cruel decree

How can I even breathe when you never will?  

I am not sure anything will ever feel fair again  


Matt Day

Most stubborn and Most Beloved

9/10/1983 – 1/26/2019


Maybe Just a Transformation Spell

Not long before I realized I was transgender, I stumbled onto and became fascinated with transition blogs. I spent hours combing through testosterone result logs and read one tearful admission of relief after another. 

I can’t remember why I thought I was so interested before I realized how deeply in every grain of my being, I neeeeeeded that. 

I read each one with my heart pounding and a stomach full of stone. 

I may have gone on like that indefinitely, but inevitably the bubble of cognitive dissonance had to break. 

and I came tumbling down. 

Back then there was a photographer, French if I remember right, who took sexy pictures of trans men for their own empowerment at any point in their transition process…even if they were choosing not to transition at all. He had a website called XXX boys. I scoured that website for weeks. Months. An eternity.

All these pictures of beautiful men who have a small sliver of shared history with me. 

The first time I felt like there may be a place in the human race I might actually fit. 

I sat in the basement in raw amazed joy, chain smoking and writing dear john letters to the person they made me think I was. 

I was free.

or something like it. 


Tonight I’m watching Queer Eye. It’s far from perfect.

still. time stretches…stomach in knots for more reasons than I can lay out in an easily digestible mini essay. 

watching a trans man learn to dress his new body. 

oh bitter sweet

I’ll never have that. 

watching young gay men frolic…envious. 

My twenties were spent trying to jam myself into a woman mold that would never fit. 

I’m not sure what I am feeling, regret? wistfulness? 

I don’t know, but here I am 

alive and well-ish 

with my own origin story that’s just as real 

and that will just have to do. 

For Pride Inclusion

It’s Pride month here in the not so Shiney U.S. of A. It’s a month of celebrating who we are in the queer community. It’s also a time that highlights how many people who fall under the lgbt2qiaa umbrella are still fighting for acceptance and inclusion. 

Sometimes the othering happens because of other aspects of a person’s identity. QTPOC are excluded through racist covert and overt othering, microaggressions, appropriation, violence, and erasure. Disabled queer and trans people often have difficulty, or can’t participate at all in community events, because of lack of accessibility on many different fronts. 

Othertimes the othering is caused by more widely accepted members of the queer community. Multisexual, trans, nonbinary, intersex, asexual, and aromantic people are just some of the identities within the lgbt2qiaa communities that struggle with acceptance within our own supposed community. Erasure, denial, and dismissal wage a seemingly silent and socially violent war inside a community that should be safe for everyone. 

So it’s Pride month, but what does that mean for those of us that don’t fit so easily into the assimilation narrative of white middle class married lesbians and white cis fashion/party gays? All of us have different answers to that question. Some people skip Pride and celebrate in their own ways, some people swear it all off entirely, some of us go to the celebrations anyway feeling a mix of excitement and tension, never knowing what all might happen. 

As for my family, we are going. Usually the experience has mixed results, some moments of euphoria, some sneers and dismissive looks. It won’t feel entirely safe, it will probably feel a bit like a good day at work. Showing up and being seen, proving our existence at all times, even on a very good day, is still labor. A drain on our limited resources, rather than a reaffirming and refreshing break from reality.

We will remind people and ourselves, that there are many ways to be queer, and that our way is not only valid, but perfect for us…and dang it we will have a wonderful time. 

Don’t forget fellow humans, your way of being queer/lgbt2qiaa is perfect for you too. *love* 

Catching Hell and Making Lemonade

Confessions of an Urban Shaman

(Black Mirror, season 2, episode 2)

“Help me please! I’m a human being!”

This then is the mistake we make, affording ones self the illusion of humanity.

No doubt I’m not the only person to watch this episode and draw some disturbing parallels. I immediately fell back on an episode of Prison Break, the scene where Adina Porter’s character Leticia is murdered by an FBI agent (of state). I couldn’t watch another minute afterwards, but was instead propelled further towards dissecting how anti-blackness is subtly rubbed into our wounds at every turn.

Consider also how not so subtly our efforts at moving towards spiritual, economic and physical liberation is placed on a similar plane as facism. In particular when there are so many black women on the front lines, making strides, building networks, bringing down statues, visibly not giving two fucks about Eurocentric ideals surrounding decorum. So anytime I gain…

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Chapter and Verse: An NRG Variant

A powerful piece in response to the state sanctioned murders of Philandro Castile and Charleena Lyles, by my beloved nesting partner and bestfriend.

Confessions of an Urban Shaman

This past weekend was a mixture of sweet conquest and bitter fruit.

While allowing myself to finally feel comfortable discussing my amorphous sexuality, the State continued to dole out various abuses to the psyche and spirits of the People.

I pumped my fist when Philando Castile’s mother expressed her rage and indignation at a system that has continued to fail the People no matter the blantant guilt of the offender.

And many of my friends also expressed their rage via social media. Not only because of the verdict but because of the verbal poplocking exhibited by their white liberal friends. Faux shock, grief, pat, pat, pat, and I was so sure THAT cop would be convicted.

Oh, you mean like Michael Slager, who was also caught on camera committing murder?

Jason Van Dyke, Timothy Loehmann?

Muthafucka please. So long as the system that enslaved us is still in place no…

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Bodies, Space and Spectrum IV: Unfiltered


All our different coming out stories are important. This is beginning of Milton Goosby’s journey of self knowledge told in raw, honest, prose.

Confessions of an Urban Shaman

A storm rumbled belligerently in the distance as I stood on my porch. My partner urged me to go on despite my hesitation.

I knew I’d suffer the next day from lack of sleep. But everyday woes had begun to pile up on me. Listless, my mind wandering, wanting…

[Even now, the sense that I don’t quite belong to a community will sometimes affect my ability to communicate. I retreat, I read, write. And in general, grown folks blues.]

Determination won over any misgivings I had about fickle weather.

It cost me.

The storm unleashed as I was four blocks from the spot. Wind, rain and hail battered my already tired soul as I sought shelter under a weak awning at the transit station. I thought about giving up, giving in, going home to a hot bath and dry clothes. Snuggling my partner and our children. Enjoying delicious homemade Teryaki…

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