it’s the day before i start testosterone and i am buying press-on gender online rose gold blue crystal mirror chrome
genders that come off easy without pulling layers of me away. that soften and fall away under warm water. that you can store away in a box for another day.
x
i used to get my gender done every month but after a lifetime of nervously picking, pulling and biting my gender grows in too weak to stay long. would keep breaking under the strain of hard work. dirty gender always edged with soil. the women would scrutinize it under the light, would shake their heads and tsk, would say i should take better care of my gender as they filed, buffed, painted a color i would be tired of the next day.
x
finally, i’ve found a gender i can take off in the half-light sitting on the edge of the bed smiling at my lover a flirtatious suggestion of what these hands can do
one hand with gender to raise red lines down her spine. the other with gender to beckon smooth an ebbing tide of breath and muscle without tearing at her soft.
x
gender i can put on for a night out to match my dress. gender i can remove when i dig in the dirt. gender that can pick up a sewing needle. gender that can scratch a cat behind the ears.
x
i once knew someone who collected slivers of their gender in a jar
the world is littered with the remains of the gender that i have pulled apart with my teeth.
x
with gender this fragile constantly breaking, leaving skin raw and red and aching i thought about what it would have been like to just not have gender at all
but this world is so full of hard edges and this body is so soft i can only imagine without it, it would eventually hurt too much to touch anything or anyone
x
i resent the idea of gender that has so often failed me persisting when i am dead, growing larger while the rest of me shrinks away into nothing.
perhaps cremation could burn my gender away. I could be as soft as dirt. the hard edges of my gender left in the fire. anything heavy as gender left behind.
what would be left of me is only what the wind could carry.
I was at the edge of fall, asking again if we could withstand another icicle winter in the north, sitting at the foot of an empty clawfoot tub watching the seabirds vanish, a thirty-year time-lapse, laughing off your ridicule over my use of the bath.
I was swimming in a giant glowing pool inside our turquoise studio home, shallow aqua blue water making up 90% of floor area, watching curious tourists come and go watching my movements in the water, my teleportations outside picking thorn-stemmed roses by the windows, then back again inside playfully paddling like clockwork. You returned one day, preoccupied. I watched, stunned as you hit a switch permanently tiling the floor where I had swam everyday.
I was in the middle of an ocean unknown, overcast and hazy, floating with all the people looking at my compass wristwatch watching a small continent drifting north, sending a forty foot tidal wave our way. I began calculating survival, eyeing a distant rocky shore, searching for you to escape with me. I emerged bloody with sea thorns stuck under my feet.
I was at the edge of paradise again talking to a marvelous blonde ghost about the seabeds, the sepia plains and stone-filled mountains we left, overlooking the veracity of white waves crashing into mars black rocks, spiraling thoughts watching aqua swirls curl into shapes unfolding, feeling like you didn’t want to take the picture we were offered.
I woke up one day mixing new water colors, feeling the burnt orange summer dying another slow beautiful demise, a waning sun turning leaves into fire. I started dreaming new sounds. I started cooking new foods. I started praising new gods. taking new pictures of the raindrops, slowly collecting another ocean.
Adrian H Molina is a wordsmith, time traveler, and shapeshifter, first cousin to jaguars and quetzals native to the “Americas.” He can be spotted in the portals of your imagination. He was recently featured at the Crestone Poetry Festival. He eats money in exchange for creative ideas. Everything is made up, and he knows his worth. Molina is creating new worlds. You can follow his writings and musings within the matrix on IG @MolinaWrites.
and I will plant sunflowers in-between your aching poles
where divinity transforms into monstrosity and
back again.
Bring me royal stargazer lilies to dissolve,
mandarin marigolds to gnaw upon,
ruby red roses to hang upside down—
pretty pictures to cut up into art.
Bring me a sad story and a black heart
that I can alchemize into laughter, making
cascading chains of illusive memory pains,
silently molding fears into sand castles.
Bring me your most guarded, treasured desires.
I will walk your dehydrated imagination to the brinks of reality
where the river banks are flooded daily
with wishes from the living and the dead.
Bring me a dream to eat,
a wall to bend, a wound to lick,
a scar to dissolve, a levee to breech,
and we can lie safely together in the shadows.
I am not a piece of your puzzle. I am
not the fragmented collection of
a story you are constructing. I am
a landscape moment you can escape into.
I cannot give you everything, you say, but I can
offer enough of the moon to satiate you
until it becomes blue again. Can you truly
learn to dissolve your face?
When you look at me, do you
see circles of forever, or merely space
to play with time? Will you come to claim
your gaping hunger at its root?
Adrian H Molina is a wordsmith, time traveler, and shapeshifter, first cousin to jaguars and quetzals native to the “Americas.” He can be spotted in the portals of your imagination. He was recently featured at the Crestone Poetry Festival. He eats money in exchange for creative ideas. Everything is made up, and he knows his worth. Molina is creating new worlds. You can follow his writings and musings within the matrix on IG @MolinaWrites.
It happens. You think you’re old enough. You’re in love. Or not. You planned it. Or not. Caution is thrown to the wind before the soft baby foot of reality kicks in, the blue double lines on a stick show you the parallel lives you’ll lead if you do or do not choose to keep it. But the engagement is set, the cervix is thick, a quiet knowing penetrates your bones—you’re about to be changed by someone you don’t yet know. You tell your lover you’ve made your choice. You quit your vices, you get a place together. You play house and giggle over stupid things, like cooking barefoot in the kitchen. You are told what to eat and what to avoid, you heed the advice, or not, and hope for the best. No one thinks to tell you that being occupied by a child can be a traumatic experience, or that your now-sober mind will perceive the world around you with new clarity.
When you walk, proud-bellied forward into the wild world, you will get unsolicited advice and un-consensual belly-pats. You’re asked probing questions about the gender of your unborn child, on the assumption there are only two genders, determined by genitalia. You are repeatedly given that powerful ominous warning: Your life will never be the same. On the day of birth, no one can explain the skull-shocking, soul-shaking realization: I have only ever been child. Now I will only ever be parent. The magnitude of the realization deepens as you realize how triggering it is to have your sore body on demand for someone else’s needs. That you signed up for this.
Elders in grocery aisles will tell you, “Enjoy it! It goes by so fast!” You smile, sleep-deprived and weepy, and carry on, your baby snoring on your chest. You sneak brief glimpses of their tiny, furrowed sleeping brow, acutely aware that it will soon be replaced by the glowering glare of a teenager. The elders don’t mention the slow-motion. How you will sit breathless, nearly motionless for an hour, your arm asleep under the weight of their perfectly-formed soft skull, so full of things they have yet to learn. The well-meaning elders failed to mention how you will sit as still as a rock in water as time slowly wears away at you and places the sediments of your understanding onto your child as you sit, open shirted, nipple exposed, dripping with milk, and cold with exposure as you muster some inner Buddha calm and just stare at their fluttering eyelids and sticky cheeks, listening to their tiny rapid breaths, reminding yourself to be still, the dishes can wait, it all goes so fast.
Two years of dishes later, you are chasing after an adorable uncivilized being who doesn’t quite speak the language and whose default volume is screaming. You were told it would go by so fast, no one warned you a day home with a toddler was, in actuality, a week, or how loud you’d curse when a toddler chomps down with new teeth. You will have to learn the hard way, through work, or separation, that a day without your child is a seemingly endless, sun-less season. No one tells you that having children is by no means an antidepressant. But to be fair, it is fairly effective suicide prevention.
No one explains that somewhere around age five, the kind eyes and patient smiles of strangers disappear and are replaced by indifference, impatient glances, and even sneers. Meanwhile, you are torn between disciplining your child to be more socially palatable, and climbing with them under the bookstore table to drink hot chocolate and make farting noises and read comic books.
If you do make the choice to bring another life into this world, there are no limits to the lessons you will learn, and there are so many people ready to dispense their wisdom and bad advice on the topic of parenting. As you seek counsel…I say take heed of the tired clichés, for they’re there for a reason…Your child will be your truest teacher and mirror, so study up, and sleep when you can, but not too often…because, it does go by so fast.
Eliza is a poet, parent, painter, carpenter, singer/songwriter, queerdo and preacher to choirs. They like to hike, garden, and scream with the punk band Black Market Translation. Their new book, “Treat Me Like You Treat the Earth,” will be released by Suspect Press on July 19th at Mutiny Information Cafe. Come say hi. You can find more of their work and contact them at ElizatheBeth.com
[dropcap]A[/dropcap] few months back, a gallery-owning friend of mine met with an artist for an upcoming show, and the artist’s first question was, “What are people buying? What images are selling the most?” My friend was annoyed at this formulaic approach. “If we’re only making art for the market,” he asked, “what kind of closed loop are we creating?”
Point taken, but this artist, along with the rest of us, still has to pay “New Denver” rent. While creativity is democratic (if you can speak, you can tell stories; if you can hold a pencil, you can make drawings) the art market is not.
Back in 2015, I had to weigh my own need to make money alongside my need to create, forcing me to rethink idealistic beliefs like “art is good; business is bad.” I left a steady teaching job to pursue writing and took whatever work I could get. There were a few rabbit holes—like the time I wrote grants for a bitter divorcée—but even these somehow became useful experiences.
Was this selling out? Maybe. I had less time to work on my poetry and plays, but my writing helped others and earned me a paycheck. It’s an eternal struggle that every creative person goes through, and there’s no universal solution to this conundrum.
We’re all dancing for somebody. Some for the market, some for our parents or lovers, others for ourselves, and still others for Lovecraftian deities. How do you find an audience that will pay for the work you want to create? Let me know if you find the perfect answer (submissions@suspectpress.com), but here are some stories of people I know who’ve found ways to make it work.
Some artists, like my friend Frank Martinez, stick to a personal vision. Frank challenges himself to change and grow with each series of paintings. When one of his shows sold out, his gallerist suggested more of the same style. It was so popular, there was potentially some good money to be made. Frank, however, was ready to move on, so “Bye, Felicia!”
“It comes down to authenticity,” Frank says, “I don’t disparage someone for creating art only to sell, but it’s not something I can do.” This approach certainly comes with some sacrifices. You might need to keep a day-job, or to live simply (hello, coupons and roommates) while you realize your vision. For many artists, a little momentary discomfort is worth it to achieve your artistic vision.
Other artists, like Jonathan Saíz, make a discipline out of collaboration. Through “So Wrong It’s So Right,” Jonathan posts other artists’ works on Instagram in 24-hour auctions. Even more, he never takes a commission. “In the old model,” he says, “we were taught there’s limited wall space, and we have to be competitive. What I’ve found is that collaborating with other artists has done nothing but make my work and my network stronger.”
This approach may require you to give before you get; particularly to other artists in the form of purchases, Patreon, or just lending a hand with their projects in any way you can.
“Do you believe in magic?” Jonathan asks, “If you don’t believe we’re in an energetic game where what we give is what we get back, then you’ll always need to be properly compensated before moving forward. But if you believe that the energetic system feeds off what you’re doing, then giving first in order to get is a way more economical way to live.”
Still other artists like Romelle see market needs and meet them, alongside her art. To supplement her painting, Romelle takes Airbnb guests on photoshoot tours of Denver street art, teaching them how to take better selfies while she makes $125/person. This also gives her the chance to talk about local art and instruct tourists on why tagging artists on social media is important (an artist’s Instagram follower-count can have a big impact on their income).
This approach isn’t for everyone, especially if it takes you away from what you perceive to be your main work. Do what feels right.
Ultimately, finding patrons who connect with you and your work is a long term process, without a single path. The only north star is your integrity and, often, patience. Artist Angela Craven spent hours organizing a solo show, only to sell one piece. Though “two years later someone called me about buying a piece they had seen in the show,” she recalls, and they ultimately bought two pieces and are considering a third. “You’re always planting seeds, even if they may not have an immediate return.”
Fund Your Art: City & State Edition
Your tax dollars finance highway expansions, belligerent wildlife relocations and traffic cop salaries. So shouldn’t they also fund the creation of beautiful things? Well, it just so happens that they do! Denver alone issues more than $500,000 in funding each year to artists, creative businesses and arts organizations.These Colorado and Denver programs can not only fund your art, but also establish your name in the wider (above ground) arts community.
Available each summer and winter, this State of Colorado program supports creative business owners and entrepreneurs in leveling up. If your creative business receives this grant to develop management practices, revenue streams or new audiences, you’ll need to match it.
The MO behind this grant, open in April and May, is building Denver’s musical ecosystem. Anyone can apply, though priority goes to music programs for kids, who can obviously take Denver’s music scene the furthest, chronologically speaking.
The OG graffiti prevention program, Denver UAF now also promotes community building and social change. Proposals come in every February, with thousands of spray paint cans emptied late summer and fall. Bonus tip: neighborhoods with fewer existing murals take priority.
This September placemaking grant allows artists to collaborate with neighborhoods or place-based nonprofits. The resulting temporary installations might highlight a place’s unique history or improve residents’ experiences. If you love partnerships, this grant is for you.
Denver approved $937 million of bonds in 2017, and thanks to this program, millions of that will fund public art. Requests for qualifications happen 3-6x per year. Worried you can’t deliver Blucifer-scale work? Most public artists hire designers and fabricators—you can too.
Anyone can apply to this summertime matching grant so long as you make the case that your new project aligns with the City’s cultural plan. One tip is that the City wants an economic impact—money should go to communities or locations that haven’t always had access to art.
Many more public art grant opportunities, Callforentry.org, Varies
Paul wants to build the cooperative commons in Colorado through affordable, community-centered financing and cross-class, interracial coalition building.
With 40 public art agencies in Colorado and mural commissions around the state (even in a new King Soopers!), Call For Entry is the place to stay connected. Don’t wait—create a profile, upload high quality images of your work and apply!
Originally from rural New Mexico, Paul Bindel spent five years teaching writing before transitioning full time into marketing at Doghead Creative, a digital marketing firm that specializes in content writing, strategy and social media.
I have two bus stops to teach myself string theory
with a grocery list and a golf pencil.
How to fold this moment as
mistakes fold in on me.
How to punish the person
who built the jail.
The people I thought
deserved an apology
don’t even remember me.
But still
with as much eye contact
I can muster
Sorry I shit your pants
going to moon walk out
and forget all this happened.
The what’s what
about what not
the whole ball of whoops.
Charly Fasano is a poet, performer, filmmaker and block printer, as well as a Colorado Creative. Fasano has read his poems and shared the stage with bands like Lucero, Drag the River, Land Lines, and The Queers. He is the founder of Fast Geek Press, Pretend You Can Reab audio zine, and As Well As Magazine. Fasano’s poems have appeared in Yellow Rake, Lubricated Magazine, and others. He has a book of poems called Next Analog Broadcast, and a multimedia book & 7 inch called RETROSPECT/ED featuring the music of Lucero.
Sofie Birkin is a British digital illustrator living in Denver with her wife and tragic labrador. By day she’s an in-house doodler and designer for a marketing agency, and by night she draws powerful women and queer heroes in gaudy colors.
