Whatever crossed my mind

Five o’clock in the morning and sober, I started surfing the net in between going back and forth on a4a and manhunt. I wanted to see if there was a list out there of black gay writers. I remember I put one together about four years ago that was when I was with my ex, the bastard’s name will not be mentioned. I put together such an extensive list of the published and unpublished, I called it the library. I’m so pissed that I deleted all my files off his computer and website. I can get really angry sometimes. I need to work on that. I guess I can put the list back together which will take so much fucking time that if I’m not drinking seems ridiculous because I mean who cares. I care. I fucking care. And I like to think that there is some black punk out there who wants to know his history. I always forget the lesbians. I really need to read more lesbians books. I mean women are great writers and story telling by nature. I wonder why men get more credit than women writers. HMMMMM.

Anyways, I woke up this morning thinking about what it meant to be a black gay writer. What it meant to be a writer of color and gay. I stand on the heels of people like Countee Cullen, Hughes, Baldwin, Hempphill. Lourde, so I should take my writing more serious. I think what it means to be a black gay writer is for me to tell my story. The story I know and connect it to the world. It’s for me to love my life and what a fucking life it has been. To be a writer is so many things, first I’m human, then I’m black, then I’m a male and then I’m gay. Lastly, I’m also fucking broke and curse a lot. But the stories I tell are just now beginning to make sense to me. I’m part of it. That feels to be part of something. I mean I ain’t getting no fucking check, but at least I’m part of it. I want to be part of it. I need to be part of it. I should put that list together and put my names in BOLD to remember my family.