to touch. just. being. alive.
the art of it and the guts of it escape my morbid hand/ you can deny that they exist but what you see, and what you do not see, and what you deny, and what you do not deny is irrelevant/ it is not germane to their existence that you see them/ your indifference is meaningless because they will demand to live their lives without either your approval or acceptance/ it’s not about you/ it’s about them/ i would wear a pink triangle but i don’t know how to sew/ excuses, excuses/ don’t tell me i cannot do what i do because i am doing it/ i do not need your permission or anyone’s permission/ i am not talking about doing it/ i am doing it/ no, no/ yes, yes/ my question to you is: how do i imbue them with a humanity after they have been through what they have been through/ they would mash their very mothers into the matrix/ yes, yes/ no, no/ yes/ just being alive/ to touch/ is being infected to the bone against the throat/ to touch what/ my blind eyes drilling knives through the masks of stone/ touch shimmering and disappearing/ carving out the deeper dreams of things to touch among the dead/ the past is iridescent streaked with the boatman’s sweat/ self-righteousness gets my ass up in the morning/ and next the heart declines to find the whirling of a shore/ heavy as the savage cave alive and writhing in the silence of the shattered, fast-bound curse/ to touch the barbs and wire/ my scratching twilight with its furious stare murmuring i was loved once by a sullen and fleshless wind/ and sailors fallen faster/ and over this glimmering river broke all the desolate nudes in stark and bewinged detail/ to touch/ being touched/ carving out the heart/ to touch/ don’t tell me i cannot do what i do because i am doing it/ i do not need your permission or anyone’s permission/ i am not talking about doing it/ i am doing it/ no, no/ yes, yes/ yes/ my question to you is: how do i imbue them with a humanity after they have been through what they have been through/ mash mashed/ yes, yes/ no, no/ yes/ just being alive/ is not enough/ you have to walk that walk/ oh, humanity/ you have to give them what they have anyway/
because it belongs to them/
denial is the tongue from hell/ denial is the indelible smell of char/ denial is the darker, sooner death draped around your neck by the sneering status quo/ denial is the anchor of your hate/ denial is your whore to paradise the glowing and the knowing pink things three squares flush on flush/ denial is the retch infinitely attended to by the curling of a peasant with a bullet in his brain/ denial is the message giving birth to acidic spill that soaks all mourning in retreat/ denial is the soak of drought upon which a pirouette like god salts a suicide/ denial is the drag of knowledge down the tearing street so necessary for a pathos nourished by spit alone/ denial’s breath is vile/ and where have you ever shown me beyond your flesh’s stretch marks that what you think matters/ why does what you think matter/ why does what you deny matter/ you knocking on doors declaring that your hollow matters/ how do you matter/ why do you matter/ you have never explained this/ you have never articulated in an open mike at the reading why your venom should be my blood/ why/ why/ why is your droning buzz in monotone backlit by significance/ you, hater/ how is it that your desire for revenge should be mine as well/ your hissing only leaves a shrinking shell for your epic migraine and the trotting off/ denial is the shield you ache with to ward off blood/ denial is the shame of fate/ denial is the rubble of a set of lungs stirring in a winter’s rearrangement of reality/ denial is the kingdom of the shadows governed by the jackals of your shock/ and where is it written by your hands of stones that we all should burn with it/ on your hands and knees/ why is it that you matter/ how is it that i am compelled to choke on your petrification/ some mean proof imbued with panic’s suffering/ how is it that i should run with you and facing away/ gesturing to the space you occupy that covers your disturbance/ denial is the end of nothingness and a freedom from the past and the wounded dream of a memory whose spin is a shifting of the passages wave-to-wave teething on nothing more than bones and the slow spread/
of reason’s ashes/
they are not your children/ your children are not your children/ i didn’t make it up/ nothing is original/ not you/ not me/ we are frozen as copies of ourselves/ stand at attention/ do not look around or you will be shot/ or are you are the indifference/ or are you are the people in the town who do not know who know/ who know/ who know/ no, no/ oh, yes, oh yes/ you know/ you are the guards/ you are the gates/ you are the wire and the barb/ you are the ovens and the smoke of faggots/ razzle dazzle, baby/ they are doing it without you/ for themselves/ you cannot abide the idea of it/ the trains in the background are only trains/ they can cum for anyone/ not us we paid our mortgage we sent our kids to college we bought a car we did all the right things/ we did all the right things/ but they are cuming for you, too/ no, no/ you can deny that they exist but what you see, and what you do not see, and what you deny, and what you do not deny is irrelevant/ it is not germane to anyone that you see them/ your indifference is meaningless because they will demand to live their lives without either your approval or acceptance/ it’s not about you/ it’s about them/ the reality of now is juxtaposed against what went down back then because it has to be/ flashing and dancing to a touching of the dreams/ where is this humanity i speak of to be found/ you either hear the music of it or you don’t/ there is no middle ground/ of course, i’m a liar your body’s nice, too/ in the background are the faces of the walking dead/ oh, denial/ the ovens of your hateful tongues mean you you you/ i would wear a pink triangle but i don’t know how to sew/ excuses, excuses/ the art of it escapes me/ no, no/
yes, yes/ yes/
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Sexually Violated Males Infected with HIV/AIDS Debut Art Show in New York City
"Tristan's Moon" opens to the public, showcasing real stories expressed by young males ensnared in the international commercial sex industries and living with the devastating consequences of HIV/AIDS
NEW YORK, Jan. 10, 2012 -- Throughout the United States, one in every six males under the age of 16 is a victim of sexual abuse. More frightening, many are immersed in sex trafficking and at extremely high risk for contracting and dying from HIV/AIDS or related illnesses, substance abuse and suicide. From the beginning of abuse through death, these young people typically suffer in silence with no hope of appropriate or consistent medical care, justice or safety. The sale of children, child prostitution, child pornography, sex trafficking, HIV/AIDS and ongoing human rights violations are the motivation behind a disturbing yet powerful 2012 art show at Real Stories Gallery Foundation in Tribeca, New York.
The "Tristan's Moon" art installation is the collaborative effort of young artists and their mentors. Thanks to Tim Barrus and Les Garcons de Cinematheque Films, founder and residents of an international safe-house and innovative arts program, these artists have been given a voice through artistic expression. Real Stories initiatives are showcased at http://www.real-stories-gallery.org with a foreword by Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu. Tristan's Moon is also the first human rights brick-and-mortar gallery of its kind, revealing personal stories through video, poetry, music, tattooing, photo collages and fine art prints.
"Tristan’s Moon spotlights a tragedy experienced by thousands of young males worldwide, including the United States," says Dr. Rachel Chapple, Real Stories founder, anthropologist and mother of four children (three boys). "One startling story is the vast majority of abusers are married men with children. This and other realities make it a difficult story to share and to witness. But we must, if we are to end the trauma happening on our watch. Tristan’s Moon reveals the creativity and guts of young males forced to survive in an abusive adult environment, and their extraordinary empathy and compassion. We have much to learn from these remarkable young survivors. Tristan's Moon will be a life-changing experience for anyone who witnesses it."
Tristan’s Moon is a conversation raised by Real Stories in collaboration with Cinematheque Films and Art for Humanity, which have gifted their international fine art and poetry human rights portfolios. Other notable contributors include composer Philip Glass and Dunvagen Music Publishers (Satyagraha: “confrontation and rescue”); tattoo artist Anthony "Civ" Civorelli, lead singer for the punk band Gorilla Biscuits; and Sumana Witherspoon-Ghosh, assistant to Vanity Fair's art director.
Tristan's Moon is located at 36 Laight Street, Tribeca, NY 10013. Please ring the bell to enter (Monday through Friday). For private viewings, ask Rachel at realstoriesgallery@gmail.com; 646-331-0117.
Real Stories Gallery Foundation, a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization, facilitates contemporary storytelling and collective witness through the arts for the purpose of raising awareness and evoking social change. Through storytelling, Real Stories works to prevent human rights violations related to HIV/AIDS worldwide.
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