#emanuel xavier

[havingapoemwithyou]

Old pro by Emanuel Xavier

[firstfullmoon]

Emanuel Xavier, “Old Pro”

[yourdailyqueer]

Emanuel Xavier

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

DOB: 3 May 1970

Ethnicity: Ecuadorian

Nationality: American

Occupation: Poet, writer, screenwriter, activist, sex worker

[honeybeebutch]

Breaking down, turning back to religion.

Free - Florence + the Machine // Urban Affection - Emanuel Xavier // Not Mad Anymore - Ashe

[thesefevereddays]

How Some of Us Survived Cuando El Mundo* Did Not Want Us

By Emanuel Xavier

In the shadows of city lights, we dwelled,

untold stories, almas olvidadas,

enduring streets where dreams were bought and sold.

Corazones—like broken glass,

reflecting pain, the sting of scorn,

searching for love en la oscuridad.

Walking the piers—our runway, steps unsure,

inocencia pérdida seeking solace, grace,

amidst the chaos, makeshift homes.

Voices silenced, cries ignored,

por un mundo that turned a blind eye,

yet we found familia in our souls.

Remember these legends,

children marked by endless strife,

love soaring entre el odio.

In this lucha, there was truth,

in this love, there was vida,

in this survival, there was hope.

*cuando el mundo = when the world

[the-end-of-art]

Christ and Dracula

Urban Affection by Emanuel Xavier

for Walt Whitman

Besides the obvious technological and architectural advances, only one thing has really changed between our generations:

We now live in an America where blacks are not only allowed the right to vote but can become the Redeemer President of the United States

Otherwise, we still live in an America where the audacity to openly enjoy the pleasures of sex and being respected for wisdom are contradictions without reconciliation

We still live in an America where the economy collapses while the masses are consumed with preventing the rights of anyone with a fancy for anything out of the ordinary

We still live in an America where rotting leaves, tufts of straw, and debris are found in more homes than poetry books

We still live in an America where Christ and Dracula provide both excitement and fear for restless lives longing for a simple touch

We still live in an America where the impact of urbanization reaches out to the common person more than the obscene nature of poetry

We still live in an America where writing about prostitution is considered trashy and profane

We still live in an America where poets have to work while publishing to survive financial difficulty unless they are fashioned like Shakespeare

We still live in an America where, unless you belong to a church, you are a religious skeptic believing in nothing

We still live in an America where overt sexuality, siding with the barnburners, and authoring disreputable books limit poets to a vagabond lifestyle

We still live in an America where breaking tradition and the boundaries of poetic form are considered the trademarks of a pretentious ass

We still live in an America where everything from thieves to dwarfs to fog to beetles deserve validity

We still live in an America where books cannot prevent war and the sick and wounded need healing

We still live in an America where not everyone can appreciate the beauty of immigration, crowded streets, brutal differences, urban affection

We still live in an America where the same sun that once invigorated your passion continues to provide us with the beauty of life worth fighting for

We still live in an America where America still lives in us

[the-end-of-art]

For both of us to remember

Step Father by Emanuel Xavier

He forgets that he used to call me mariconcito- that I harbored years of hatred toward him while hoping to find my real father. My childhood memories of him reminding me I was my mother's son, not his. I tried to poison him once and scattered sharp nails inside the shoes in his closet. By the time one of his sons died of AIDS I was already lost in contempt for the man I blamed for everything. There was the time I was in love and he met my boyfriend. Now he forgets to go to the bathroom

or where he is but he still remembers Michael and asks about him. I help him walk slowly outdoors to step outside the prison cell that is the tiny apartment with no windows in which I grew up abused by both of them. He barely understands. His fate has been torture. I know that I cannot be his savior. I used to pray for him to die but here he is slowly fading. In his eyes I see that he learned to love me and wishes he could take it all back. He is unable to recall those drunken nights and hateful words. I should

do the same. I left a long time ago but he still remains haunted by the little boy who wanted to belong. Like him, I want to forget that we made mistakes and caused so much pain. I need for both of us to remember how he taught me how to ride a bike and how to swim and told me, better late than never, that he loved me and was proud of all I had done. I have to help him settle into his favorite chair and let him know that I forgive him. There is a place somewhere where he will call me hijo and I will know him as my dad.

[missedstations]

"Step Father” - Emanuel Xavier

He forgets that he used to call me mariconcito- that I harbored years of hatred toward him while hoping to find my real father. My childhood memories of him reminding me I was my mother’s son, not his. I tried to poison him once and scattered sharp nails inside the shoes in his closet. By the time one of his sons died of AIDS I was already lost in contempt for the man I blamed for everything. There was the time I was in love and he met my boyfriend. Now he forgets to go to the bathroom or where he is but he still remembers Michael and asks about him. I help him walk slowly outdoors to step outside the prison cell that is the tiny apartment with no windows in which I grew up abused by both of them. He barely understands. His fate has been torture. I know that I cannot be his savior. I used to pray for him to die but here he is slowly fading. In his eyes I see that he learned to love me and wishes he could take it all back. He is unable to recall those drunken nights and hateful words. I should do the same. I left a long time ago but he still remains haunted by the little boy who wanted to belong. Like him, I want to forget that we made mistakes and caused so much pain. I need for both of us to remember how he taught me how to ride a bike and how to swim and told me, better late than never, that he loved me and was proud of all I had done. I have to help him settle into his favorite chair and let him know that I forgive him. There is a place somewhere where he will call me hijo and I will know him as my dad.