Orlando Two Point O: Hashtag Forever Yung
O’s Haunt: Me//Face//Ask//About//Submit
today this bearded weirdo was at pizzahut laughing about his birthday and some other bearded weirdo was there too and the second beardwad gave the first beardwad some dinosaurs and the first one was so loud and just hairy and yuck—honestly, what’s the point in lumberhack masculinity like w.t.h. but w/e, not everyone can rock slim-cut denim crop tops blouses and a permanent like I can but furreal why try and be all big beard big voice; yr not fooling anyone, youve never been in a forest you’ve never held an axe, AND don’t you dare start, I’m like so passionate about the environment and I will GO THE FUCK OFF on y’all if you cut down from our local lot, not that I can really squash the Irving menace, but I have a modest goal of saving my favourite tree, this big gnarled oak out in Odell; but what if I can’t, like I mess up the yolk in every egg, from over easy 2 scrambled cheesy, and—and man this guy was sooooo hairy like oh my god and he was like oh yeah take a photo I’mma put this on the blog and I thought w.t.h. this guy has a blog maybe he’s got culture too beneath all that hair and whatever but I just had to share all this w/y’all but I didn’t jump the gun okay maybe but don’t judge u dicks.
TAGS: Oaky dokey, beard culture, dinosaurs, environmental activist, gpoy, big O, archive fever, amiright
I’m dressing up as a nun for halloweiner’s eve this year but like with a bib covered in bbq stains or blood maybe like a cannibal nun I dunno but that part ain’t hard I just can’t seem to craft this habit quite right and all my gal pals that are better at this shit than me like craftwise (or witchcraftwise, amiright ladies?). I might show some unholy thigh with holey tights. Karin is dressing up as a bearded lady with a big furry Russian hat, showing her tits off; amen. Pics will follow.
TAGS: halloweirdo, gpoy, me rn, big O, ideas?, arts, crafts, release the Russian tits.
Woke up today and felt gayer than ever. Not really different, but like I had a tattoo with thin sharp lines that migrated a bit out, fuzzed, but bigger now, like a chainsaw with the teeth strapped back on after a long winter with work off. But you know, not really, because that tree means so much to me. Don’t cut these down. Don’t cut me off. Let me speak my mind, let me be something new without making me less than everything I’ve ever been. Manoman. Lady, maybe.
TAGS: she/they pronouns please, deep, porn blogs DON’T reblog this, little O.
Got kicked out from the folks house today but I got took in by poet Jeramy Dodds, a man of many rings (I mean check out his twitter bio you can’t make this stuff up) and also the estate of the Sabian family like drum cymbal royalty so I’m not sweating it anymore but yeah now I’m sort of a genderqueer martyr for the freddy youth feminists it’s pretty cool imo. J Doddz wrote on Odin hung from a tree, vulnerability and stuff, ‘cause he already knew everything that’d ever happen to him. John Cushney from ConnexionARC did something similar this past summer. “Performance art.” I plan to picnic out there heaps this summer. Any freddy-folk wanna join me? Send me a PM. I can’t cook, but we can Buddha it up, sit and starve in the shade, blog about it later. Peace.
TAGS: she/they pronouns please, little O, me rn, fuck, stresssss, wish me luck.
They found another body out in Odell park. Beneath my big Oak. But I don’t get old; I don’t die; things get old; not big O. The dates from this blog make things firm, but I don’t feel like I’m tethered to them. I don’t feel like I move with the world, like none of us can keep up, up with the smart-phones that can decode speech from vibrations in deinterlaced footage, from large hadron colliders or Bök splicing whatever it is in a dish to generate organic poetry. That body reached a point in time and the person inside blipped out for a holy heaven sandwich pitstop and the body started moving backward into the roots, into the wye Oak, coming undone like sloppy sutures unwind, or maybe better, like sutures dissolve when they’re done making their point and “fixing you,” whatever that means. But the body got pulled out, a jogger took offense to the body, to the tree cradling it, to the roots moving endless out and down, to the mildew mortar making meaning for us again, something serious enough to sate our sorrow and to give strength back to the unseen processes; they revised the scene, took the body from my Oak, and it seems somehow 2ce as tragic. I’m not growing. I’m not gaining knowledge every time I have some cool cutting edge queer oppressive experience. I am always beneath the boot (and not the queer-cool Doc Martens kind of boot either), the boot is always above, I see the boot and the boot sees me as something to squish. I can’t grow, because I can only make sense of my worth through labels and a supportive satellite community. I can only define myself through otherness. I want to be the benchmark. I want to sit on a bench in the world and just breathe, but they’re up to their necks in snow this time of year, and swaddled in sweating bros and insipid valley girls all summer. I want to be out there with my Oak. I want to be my big Oak. I want to hold everyone tight just a while until this weird life blows over. I want to essay for the oppressed. I want to do something, but I’m not sure this blog is it. I will retire; gender, school, the blog, the gaze, the trail my padded feet firm up each summer to my Oak, I will retire all meaning and then maybe we can start to dictate ourselves through action. Or maybe I won’t do anything at all. But I have to start on these essays so I don’t fail out high-school. I have to start revising these arguments to make them effective. Make me a sword, that’s Shakespeare. Make me the word. I give you my word, I’mma try; can a dead tree stand forever? How do you tell how it’s doing without peeling back the bark?
TAGS: foreveryoung, fuck poetry, fuck science, fuck the gaze, fuck gender, fuck me, no big O, no little O, no O at all, maybe, O-ak, oaky dokey, fuck tags, fuckkkk—.
About the Writer
Benjamin is a poet/person/experimental-filmmaker living in Atlantic Canada, currently writing novels-in-verse and chewing through all the non-canon Star Wars literature they can get their mini-mitts on. Find some of their writing in GEIST 99, and a short film online at Prick Of The Spindle.
-- House Stuff
-- Heat Dream
Artwork and Photography
-- Mistry Trees
-- Let it Begin