THE GRAN VARONES

who am i here for?
for varones!
all of them.

the ones on the way wide
surviving life marginalized
the ones who celebrate their GEDs
and the ones hanging up PHDs
who stay giving me the side eye.
i am here for them too.

i am here for the ones
living with HIV
and beautifully thriving
i am here for the ones
who stay stigmatizing
but even don’t know it.
i am here for all of them.

i am here for the ones
who can read
and the ones who read.
i am here for the ones that heal
and the ones that continue to make us bleed
gawd dammit, i am here for them too.

the ones who are undocumented
and go on unaccounted for in pride parades
the ones who are not afraid to parade
up and down hood streets daring
and threatening to beat
any muthafucker who tries it
i am here for them.

i am here for the ones
who only speak and dream in spanish
and those who have not mastered the language
but still understand it.
the ones who can’t roll an “R”
but can the roll the hell
out a blunt,
i am here for them too.

who am i here for?
varones!
all of them.

i am here for the ones
who raise their fists
as an act of resistance
and the ones who use
their public assistance
to feed more just their kids,
more than just themselves
i am here for them.

the ones that come in peace
and that are in pieces of rage
the ones that have been taught
to deny pleasure and desire
and so they sex shame
i am here for the ones
who get to workin’ by posting
their pretty asses on backpage
i am here for all them.

i am here for the ones
who under and over achieve
the ones who are so willing to love
with their hearts on their sleeves
i am here for tending to battle scars
who stand on constant guard
because life as a varon has made them hard,
i am here for them.

the ones who are at close proximity
to war and grief,
the ones who are standing in possibility
and the ones who can’t make believe
to believe in the make believe
because dreams were not made for all us.
i am here for them
because gawd dammit,
they have been there for me.

the gran varones granvarones storytelling queer gay latino latinx orgullo spoken word poetry boricua

maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if that means having to read
every op-ed posted on facebook
written by mostly grad school educated folks
who use words that i have to google,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that my real life experiences
will be reduced to particles
if my responses to said articles
do not meet the king’s english
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means having to explain,
demonstrate and prove the pain
of hiv positive latino gay men
who are still forced again and again
to live in secrecy,
while processing that shame in secrecy,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i have to burn sage over lighting blunts,
or sipping wine instead of long island iced teas to heal,
to chill or to fill a space in me
that continues to be peeled away by ridicule,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i can’t sing along
at the top of my fuckin’ lungs
as i hit the quan
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i have to disregard
and pick apart varones
who are not always equipped
or have the words to articulate
their contribution to the revolution
because breathing and surviving
oppressive institutions
isn’t impressive for some of us,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i have to recite quotes
and passages from books
celebrated and hailed by the “movement”
over my ability to quote and spit lyrics
from my fave mariah and nicki song,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means having to choose
my politics over sucking dick
and having to present as masculine
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means using “movement” terms
only to prove that i have learned
that words matter only when popping off
or creating a spectacle
but NOT being impeccable with my word.
then yes, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means just speaking about social justice action
but never following it up with action
beyond the traction of my finger tips on keyboards
to eloquently write out my thesis for freedom
that my mother cannot read,
then yes, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that my ego
is the only fragile thing that matters
over safer spaces used as bait to shatter
the teeth of those who are tricked into the belief
that a college degree
will add weight to the very necessary things
that should be spoken,
then maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means only feeling comfortable sitting on panels
because i can’t handle sitting on porches and stoops
because of how i speak the “truth”
stopped being accessible
to folks i “speak” for but not speak to,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that i have to police the grammar
of the same people i fight for and write for
just so academics can celebrate my work –
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means celebrating those
who have chosen to get arrested
while shaming those of us who live
in arrested development
because of the complexities of our trauma
isn’t as beautiful and dutiful
as a five-noun political identity
then, maybe, i am not woke as fuck.

if it means having to choose between
raising my fists over raising my kids,
because loving son my with all i have
isn’t a trending hashtag,
then no, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means overthinking
until i am on the brink of losing connections
from the people who provide me oxygen,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

if it means that being a leader
requires me to be a constant bleeder
teetering on the edge of insanity to prove
to the next “woke as fuck” muthafucker
that i myself am woke,
then nah, maybe i am not woke as fuck.

the gran varones granvarones queer latino boricua latinx poem spoken word anger love storytelling slay gay lgbt

Blank

Arching my back
To snap the perfect shot
I’m bare
Maybe this will make him react
Make him so erect
That he won’t notice how empty I am
I’m blank
All that remains is shame

Arching my back
He does not even know my name
All he knows is that I’m thick
Uncut, curvy, and unafraid to show it all
He may think I’m easy
Another fast track

Arching my back
Inviting a stranger’s touch
Lusting for his lips as I sway
My hips side to side
Waiting for a momentary rush
Between the sheets
All that remains is a body filled with shame

Arching my back
Snap after snap
Pretending it was just a photo
It did not mean anything
He could look but not touch
Until I found myself in the back seat of his car
I felt cheap
My lower back pressed against the door
Trying to ignore every thought telling me
“You deserve more”

Arching my back
So another stranger could hit my spot
He said,
“You could build walls with the bodies
You’ve given your all
Did any of them ever make love to you?”

Written By: Mark Travis Rivera

Mark Travis Rivera is an award-winning activist, choreographer, dancer, speaker, and writer. Raised in Paterson, New Jersey, Rivera learned to overcome the struggles that stem from being Latino, gay, gender non-conforming (femme), and disabled. He learned to embrace every aspect of his identity, which allows him to live a purpose-driven life.

Rivera had been featured at various speaking engagements throughout the US, speaking to audiences at Harvard University, New York University, and San Francisco State University. His talk “Embracing Yourself, Embracing Your Potential” was a hit at the TEDx Talk event at Bergen Community College in Paramus, New Jersey in March of 2014.

A poet and journalist, Rivera has long used writing as a form of expression. His poem, “Love Letters to Myself (Excerpts)” was published in a new anthology, Between: New Gay Poetry More recently, his essay, “Marking My Own Path: An Inner City Dreamer” was published in the anthology, I Am Here: The Untold Stories of Everyday People. Rivera’s writing has also been published in The Bergen Record, Herald News, The Star Ledger, Fox News Latino, and The Huffington Post.

You can also check out Mark’s Gran Varones profile here.

the gran varones granvarones poetry spoken word art latino latinx queer gay femme gender non-conforming boricua storytelling orgullo portrait photojournalism

“break this poem” [for every warrior]

break this poem

break this poem in two,

leave half for me

take half for you,

break this poem as please

bit by bit, piece by piece,

feed this poem

and declare a bountiful feast,

break it against chains

and prison cells,

break it against bodies bruised

with skin scars that never tell,

mask it on eyes that hide

until something from the sky arrives,

break it against feet

that are battered and tired,

break it against minds and hearts

that yearn for the burn of fire,

break it till it inspires

and gives us wings to understand

break this poem,

take this poem as means into your hands.

break this poem

break it and divide it

onto everyone you see,

take some for you

leave some for me,

break-in case of emergency,

light in on highways

to guide ways of urgency,

break it against the universe

strike it across the night,

tear it apart and use it as a shield

should the battlefield need you to fight,

break it like wood

and light dark places,

bang it against the ground

to find the traces,

left by deaths and breaths

of ancestors never found,

break it, i say.

break this poem!

louie a. ortiz

lourok granvarones poerty art spoken word queer latino boricua photography portrait philadelphia gay ferguson solidarity revolutionary

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

maybe i am not woke as fuck.

Blank

Arching my backTo snap the perfect shotI’m bareMaybe this will make him reactMake him so erectThat he won’t notice how empty I amI’m blankAll that remains is shame

Arching my backHe does not even know my nameAll he knows is that I’m thickUncut, curvy, and unafraid to show it allHe may think I’m easyAnother fast track

Arching my backInviting a stranger’s touchLusting for his lips as I swayMy hips side to sideWaiting for a momentary rushBetween the sheetsAll that remains is a body filled with shame

Arching my backSnap after snapPretending it was just a photoIt did not mean anythingHe could look but not touchUntil I found myself in the back seat of his carI felt cheapMy lower back pressed against the doorTrying to ignore every thought telling me“You deserve more”

Arching my backSo another stranger could hit my spotHe said,“You could build walls with the bodiesYou’ve given your allDid any of them ever make love to you?”