“some historians think that michelangelo was drawing god in a human brain. very few people knew what one looked like at the time; but michelangelo had dissected cadavers and would have known. it even has the hint of a brain stem. if true this would have been a great “fuck you” to the pope whom he was not friendly with but also would have meant god was in a human brain, or created by man.”


also michelangelo painted a baby angel flipping off the pope


the blond one, you see his right hand? that’s called the fig and it’s an old world european gesture for ‘fuck you” because apparently Pope Juluis II was a total raging asshole and everyone hated him

but nobody ever noticed this little fucker because the ceiling was so high

and then thirty years later they called michelangelo back to paint the wall behind the altar and he wasted no time in painting the gates of hell behind the pope’s chair

what a badass

It amuses me to this day how much Michelangelo hated his job

I felt this ball of rage
when I can see a boy and a girl holding hands
and no one questions why or how or what it is that is there
but when you see two boys or two girls walking down the street
they are holding hands - what is going on? Who are they? 
it is embedded into us from this media - our upbringing - our schools - our towns - the nosy old women that hang off their balconies with elephant ears
trying to hear you talking to your mother about your first time having sex
the PTA meetings and
the soccer meets
that your mom goes to
their kids have straight upbringings
date a boy if you are a girl
find a nice young man to marry - support you - while you stay home and clean for him

nice floors - nice food to come home to

a nice back rub - a nice clean house - nice kids - that want straight companions too

when I’m sitting here and I’m gay
I am in love with women - a woman
and that same lady with the elephant ears
dies from a heart attack and her ears shrink
so nobody sees who she was
just a nice old neigh-our lady that lived next door
with a beautiful balcony with flowers on it

the kind from alice in wonderland that don’t know right from wrong
and gossip about you - when they are damn flowers

my sex talk was through a book about sex education
that I masturbated to the pictures to
I didn’t use it learn about anything
except sexual exploration
and the book how babies made
was given to me when I was twelve
and was from giving my step brother blow jobs
in the bushes while playing with nerf squirt guns
or putting a titanic puzzle together
we would sneak off into the spare bedroom

to make out

we would hide under his bed - he would press himself on top of me and if his mom would walk in we would pretend to be getting toys out from under there. I felt safe with him

we went to our first baseball game together.
I fell asleep but he promised to meet me in the bathroom at some point but we didn’t follow through.
there were too many people that would notice and I had a baseball the size of Neptune
I stole from a younger kid signed with a crayon all of the players on the Dukes team

so later on the bus ride home we didn’t say anything
my mother was furious when she found out about us
and I knew that it was wrong but it felt right

I wonder how angry she would be if she knew
I love women
and men sexually appall me 

I don’t want to get married to a man
I don’t want to be a stay at home mom - or any generic term that is put on women

I just want to climb that balcony and sweet talk those flowers into believing there is something more than an old woman tending to them that is as bitter as they taste when you try to eat them as a kid 



R.I.P. The 2976 American people that lost their lives on 9/11 and R.I.P. the 48,644 Afghan and 1,690,903 Iraqi and 35000 Pakistani people that paid the ultimate price for a crime they did not commit

this is the only september 11th post I’m reblogging

Maybe a damned good night’s sleep will bring me back to a gentle sanity. But at the moment, I look about this room and, like myself, it’s all in disarray: things fallen out of place, cluttered, jumbled, lost, knocked over and I can’t put it straight, don’t want to. Perhaps living through these petty days will get us ready for the dangerous ones.

I believe one of my residents was a lumberjack or body builder. They are a very physically strong female that has already left me with a scar on my chest and now fingernail imprints on my forearm. Some days it is a battle to get them into bed in order to change them and get them off of their butt because I genuinely care about their well being and whether or not they get pressure ulcers but some nights it is very testing and although there are people like me that care a whole lot about whether someone has been sitting in their own feces and urine for 3+ hours in the same position - I stopped questioning whether or not is it worth it because I have seen pressure ulcers that I can fit my entire fist into. I keep reminding myself of that and that I am the only thing that protects them from that happening to them. 

I’ve been making a list of the things they don’t teach you at school. They don’t teach you how to love somebody. They don’t teach you how to be famous. They don’t teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don’t teach you how to walk away from someone you don’t love any longer. They don’t teach you how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. They don’t teach you what to say to someone who’s dying. They don’t teach you anything worth knowing.
I bought yours

I could not
Love her the way I love you
Even when her back is pressed
Into me and I feel her breaths
Through the rise and fall
Of a thousand oceans
Lapping along the shoreline
Her pulse is the sound
Of bird wings flapping through the air
But what stands out the most
Is her warmth
The heat of a thousand suns
Your heart is the one I hear pounding in my ears
When I put my index fingers in them
trying to hear the ocean through seashells like we used to
You had ones in your bathroom
The wallpaper had them - the soap was molded into them - your hand and bath towels had their shapes engraved in them by the gods
It was all I could hear when I put my ear to your chest
On the nights I would exhaust myself from crying as you held me
I would shake something terrible
And the mountains that were my knees would bow to your voice

I now wake up to open windows and the roar of the ocean playing back at me from a soumd machine I bought at a thrift store

And they say you can not buy someone’s heart

I bought yours

I looked at her crying
But don’t you realize
You have people in your life
In your hometown
And I am not
I am distanced from them
They do not know who I am
So use me
To talk to
To just rant
I do not know these people
So what does it matter
I only know you
Use me as an escape
To the oasis in the middle of the desert

the best writers - photographers  - scholars - dreamers..

The best people always seem to be the saddest. And the best works seem to come from their sadness. 

There is this center and this darkness you find yourself in - and you know that in these depths there are a lot of things there that no one else can see unless they are there. So we bring them out. And they’re not to scare you or to haunt you in the middle of the night - to bring nightmares about. But they’re to make you believe in something outside of yourself and that there is a place other than where you are. That we are not just specks in this universe and that your home you go to each night is the same we go to in the day to see what it is like to be Happy. 

I always envisioned being the lover that took care of the love of my life
that I would be the rock that would pick up the pieces every single time

but I have found that is someone I could never be
not for anyone
because I am the one that needs the rock and the pieces picked up

my comfort is in my silence and the way I hold you when you cry

because I never know much of what to say

but somehow I always know how to make you feel better

even if it’s not close to smiling

I’ll take it