What it is, what it is.

I think I finally slept off the last of my cold. I honestly hate the snotty type sickness so much.

BUT there are things I have to share with you.

My publisher Motherblazing now has an official website!!

Check it out here and check out the news about Milcah’s book ‘Sisterhood’ coming.

Sisterhood: Ate is a teaser of Milcah Halili Orbacedo’s work-in-progress memoir. This excerpt explores the intersections of race, gender, class, and sexuality in the context of their experiences with Lorelei Lee in her writing workshops and as a BDSM scene partner at Kink.com. Milcah writes with the intention of inspiring folks who feel bogged down by marginalization, to encourage them to make the changes and risks they need to make in order to embody the realest versions of themselves, and to seek a healthy and loving community to support them in this crazy mess we call life.

While you’re checking it out, join Milcah’s email list here.

AND if you’d please head to twitter and tell Milcah happy birthday. That would be awesome.

ALSO you can pick up a teaser of their book and I feel like you should read it. Go here and get it.

Here’s what Milcah says about it:

Sisterhood: Ate is a teaser of my work-in-progress memoir. This excerpt explores the intersections of race, gender, class, and sexuality in the context of my experiences with Lorelei Lee in her writing workshops and as a BDSM scene partner at Kink.com. Your purchase of this teaser will go towards my living expenses while I finish Sisterhood and make the transition (from performer to writer, from woman to man, from San Francisco to New York City) to a life I’ve always dreamed of. I write with the intention of inspiring folks who feel bogged down by marginalization, to encourage them to make the changes and risks they need to make in order to embody the realest versions of themselves, and to seek a healthy and loving community to support them in this crazy mess we call life.

Ate (pronounced ah-TEH) is a Tagalog word for “older sister,” an identifier I’m proud to call Lorelei Lee, a writer, porn performer, director, and teacher. Ate is a title meant to honor the sisters who came before us, those who are kin. In people of color and church communities, to be a sister is to be someone’s darling, dear to one’s heart. Being a sister can also mean being queer, being a feminist, being chosen family. In my heart, Lorelei Lee is all of these things. Lorelei paved the way for me to feel free in my gender and sexual expression and unlocked a world in literature for me so full of diversity and self-reflection. Her influence in my life helped wake me to my most authentic self. I hope you enjoy this excerpt, and that you’ll email me with feedback at milcahorbacedo@gmail.com.

And let me say, you should get in touch. Knowing Milcah has been amazing and transformative for me.

We are doing important work. So come on and help us out.

What else?

Well I’m still getting my docs and shit moved to my new computer and getting used to it. I’m going to try and get a little desk like this to use at home.  I’m going to try out making some chit chat youtube videos too.

That’s all for right now. I’ve got a new essay cooking and it needs stirring.

Against Diversity.

Given the further ramping up of racism in the lit world, I have to confess something.

In recent weeks I’ve watched digital yellowface, more White lady authors defending each other from us savage Brown, Black, Queer, Disabled and countless others, I have seen White people do intellectual 10.0 tumbling routines in order to make sure everyone knows that it’s never their fault, they aren’t racists, they are just trying to get what we others have.

I have witnessed male poets sexually harass, objectify and gaslight women.

I haven’t commented on every single thing because I was busy putting out a book.

Here is something I’ve come to understand.

When they say they aren’t against, diversity they just are against censorship and racial nepotism they want us others around but quiet.

Yes, it’s reassuring to know that we Wise Old Negresses exists, but naturally only a precious few of us should be visible or audible at any one time.

If more than one of us speaks at one time, it’s just PCness taking over and tantamount to murderous terrorism and censorship on the level of book burnings and religious extremism.


I see exactly what’s happening.

Solidarity amongst us others is threatening to Whiteness because we have our own voices, and will not only have our own spaces but will be heard in those spaces as well.

I see the patterns in this behavior.

The fear based posturing. The apparently righteous cause of freedom of speech. The White Flight. The victim pose, oh poor picked on White people being held accountable for their words and actions. All of it.

And it is exhausting.

I endure the micro aggressions. I quietly unfollow, unfriend, put literary magazines on my verboten list. I note who I will and won’t EVER work with at my own peril.

And yet, YET I am still right here.

I wrote an amazing book that is vital and important and yes, it is fucking expensive. 

I’ve stood up for my work because god damn it, this is years of my life, deep life changing work for both my publisher and I. And yes, it is that valuable.

I do this work in the face of the wall of White tears, White outrage, Silencing, Othering, and cowpie dodging that is the publishing industry.

I do this work because it is what I am meant to do.

I don’t do it in order to lead White folks and publishers by the hand into the land of milk, honey & diversity.

I do it because I have things to say. Because my voice, the voice that I have struggled to find and learn how to wield like a machete and like a lover’s hand is important.

So yes, YES, by all means keep tumbling and cartwheeling to justify why I should remain silent.

I will not name you all.

But I see you.

I see you.



Things I Dug Out of My Own Saltmine

I have been busy migrating documents from cloud storages, a little folder at work, emails etc. I could not sleep to save my life so I read some of what I’ve been writing in the past year or so.

Before I get to the meaty part, I want to say that it’s long been deeply important to me to know myself and my heart. Whether or not I share that with anyone is a whole other beast. I lived with so much shame, the type of shame that seems to come from your DNA I’ve made it part of my business as a human being to see myself for what and who I am regardless and deal with it good or bad.

One thing I keep seeing is that there are some things that I have come to (laughingly mind you) accept about myself as a creator and artist.

I try really fucking hard to be lighthearted sometimes. Lighthearted does not come naturally to me at all. I’m a goofy but very serious person. It is super difficult for me to do light. It is also super hard for me to be funny on purpose.

It’s not hard in the way that say, writing about racism in lit is hard for me. It is a whole other level of difficulty.

Part of it is that every piece I write whether it comes through or not, is about survival for me. It is how I live through ALL of the other bullshit and at this age, I have an agenda and I want to get that shit done. My writing time is precious and finite and I have shit to say.

There is that layer.

Then there’s the layer of well, okay. To put it in a different context. I do not have good hand eye coordination. My vision is very poor, like I’m pretty helpless without correction and can do nothing but lay around making sloth noises. In spite of that, I LOVE playing video games. I like violent, bloody, scary video games. I’m awful at them. Like, I bought Lord of the Rings Return of the King at Game Stop the night it came out (which I NEVER DO, baby do not pay retail) and took it home and real talk it took me four months to get to 15 minutes of saved game time.

I rage quit that bitch so hard I not only uninstalled it while cursing and naked, I made Uniballer my partner legit get rid of the whole shebang.

Now doing lighthearted work is not that kind of difficult for me. It’s more like it taking me four tries and copious notes to finish Silent Hill 1. I love it, I try really hard I’m just not good at it.

I felt some angst about that for a bit. I mean, everyone loves people who are delightful and funny. Sometimes I am delightful and funny (I AM DELIGHTFUL -imagine me bug eyed and screaming at the void-) however, it’s not really my jamz. I have come to the realization that it’s okay. While I do have the ambition of being a can do everything type writer, I’m just not.

And that’s okay.

It’s not just okay, it’s pretty fucking fantastic.

It is fantastic because that is one less layer of stress and pressure for me to put myself under. I have just freed myself of this weird uh, choke hold. Sometimes I strangle myself with these out of control beliefs that if I think I can do something I should be able to regardless. I did the same thing with art. I love art. I grew up mesmerized and comforted by Bob Ross. That said, I cannot draw. I failed one of those everyone can learn to draw a pony classes and the instuctor felt so guilty because I was so sad he gave me my money back out of pocket. I got very disciplined and made myself practice a skill that only served to stress me out and give me another reason to be shitty to myself.

Now rather than writing stuff that I have worked to death and lost all love or hope for I’m not going to force it.

I ain’t wid it.

What I am for, is honing my voice and what’s important to me to write about. I’m about embracing the serious little fucker I am, and running with it into the wild.

I am a savage.

I will continue to go for the throat.

I won’t make myself feel bad for not being more entertaining.

That’s all for now friends.


PLS come sign up for my self-care newsletter. I am SO excited about doing it because I like writing love letters to folks and these are loveletters. For srs. Come on. It’s free bruh.

Trouble Mind, Aching heart.

Amid the excitement of me getting a new computer, (I DID IT. I almost cried because I was afraid some financial catastrophe would happen, but I did it), releasing Self Care Like a Boss with Milcah, doing two amazing readings with other QTPOC (Queer Trans People of Color), getting PAID for one reading. Meeting and connecting with some WOC locally, having people walk up to me after my reading to tell me thank you for doing what I do and using my big fat mouth, life has been pretty overwhelming and beautiful.

I’ve been sharing inspiration and solidarity with other writers. Tears and angst and nerves.

It has been everything and draining and dreamy.

The dark side of this rainbow is having to come back to the reality of the literary world I live in.

An organization I pay money to belong to continually show it’s ass. From relegating the very real concerns of people of color to “controversy” and rather than engaging us nasty ole brown folks who pay to be a member of that community, we were brushed aside and at least I personally was called a bully, a racist, among other things. That led me to write this piece at Medium about the new coded language of racism in the lit world. That was in May. Just recently a woman decided to satirize the idea of someone in a position of power hunting indigenous people (because genocide IS SO FUCKING FUNNY) in order to “stand up” for AWP against all us bullies. This was in response to calls for AWP to be more transparent and have better disability/access policies.

Because obviously, if people who aren’t White Cis Able bodied people with money, they are just pushing around a huge organization that they pay to be members of.

Asking for transparency and to be listened to and treated like human beings is bullying now.

I come back from the daylight into the darkness of well intentioned White magazine editors publishing blatantly joyously Islamaphobic rants disguised as poetry, and their response is we didn’t mean it that way.

I come back to said same poet, traumatizing a friend with his hateful poetry. White men coming out of the woodwork to cry about censorship and how mean and evil every woman or other person is for objecting to their shitty pants art.

I come back to having to add yet more publishers and magazines to my growing list of places I will never submit to because when they fuck up, the answer is always I didn’t mean it that way, I am committed to diversity, our intentions were good.

I come back to online literary communities where, you can be that guy who is colorblind and it’s fine.

I have so many questions that I know will go unanswered.

I come back to the certain knowledge that the honest, I really need to know the questions I have, don’t get answered because I have the audacity to ask them and thus I become the aggressive enemy and the artists, editors and organizations must be shielded from my prying eyes.

It doesn’t matter how I ask. If I say please, if I say fuck you. They never take full honest responsibility.

Here are some of my questions.

Why exactly is it satirical to imagine someone in a position of power hunting human beings?

What exactly was the line that said, hey, this poem is going to be our statement on ISIS?

At what point, if any, does someone- fuck ANYONE an editor someone say, hey, maybe this subject doesn’t need another White man to be the face and voice of it?

Why don’t people of color submit to us?

I sit with these questions constantly. Sometimes I ask them of the appropriate people and have yet to get an honest thoughtful reply.

The thing I’ve said over and over again is this. You have to be honest. You have to sit in your discomfort and understand that you can shout out of one side of your mouth about how much you love diversity and representation and how welcome all of us others are welcome at your magazine or press, but understand that when the people in positions of power demonstrate both by word and deed how few fucks they give about all us others, we see it.

If you want to be an ally, you can’t just say oops, my bad a la Clueless and think it’s all okay. You have to be uncomfortable and be honest and be responsible for what you’ve done or said.

Contrary to the cries of shitmouth artists everywhere, when we say this is a racist thing that you printed, wrote or otherwise supported it is not the knee jerk reactions of silly brown people who can’t think critically. It is not the cry of unpublishable others, it is not a cry for censorship.

It is a demand for accountability.

It is not that it’s popular for POC or the countless others to stick our necks out and risk our careers just to “accuse” someone of bias or racism.

The situation is that many of us are tired of this shit.

We are tired of being colonized.

We are tired of our stories, our lives, our histories and current struggles being relegated to “controversy”.

We are tired of being silenced unless we are nice.

We are tired of this shit.

I am tired of this shit.

I don’t want to vet my submissions because I don’t want to be associated with publishers or magazines that are actively participating in my oppression.

I don’t want to come down from my literary dream dates and land face first in racism and shit fuckery.

There’s an extra layer to this involving publishing my book, but we’ll get to that another day.

That’s all for right now I have art to make.

Too Excited For Life

So thanks to my patrons and using Smarty pig and some other monies coming in me getting a laptop to use at home to work on is imminent.

It is fairly modern, a fancy little Toshiba that isn’t too fancy but fancy enough.


Writing on computers that are not mine, my phone and relying on cloud storage has been fuckin rough.

BUT I’ve been doing that shit because sometimes you just do what you gotta do.

It’s been rough, but some good things have happened right? I mean I had a book come out like three days ago.

I’ve been invited to readings. I’ve been writing poems and shit.

Now here are some things I am working on and have been plotting:

  • Writing about my own gender identities
  • Writing about my weirdly syncretic spiritual feelings
  • Writing more genre fiction
  • Podcasting
  • Vlogging about books, beauty, other stuff I wanna talk about.


What I’m wanting to be is unstoppable.

I want to create whatever comes into my wee head.

I have been on that grind, and I want more.

I need more. I have shit to say. I have a LOT OF SHIT I NEED TO SAY.


I am so full of creative ambitions. There are so many things I want to be able to do. I want to learn how to properly write a movie script. I want to finish the Daiyu Saga. I want to make me a lil youtube channel and talk about ALL the stuff that I love. On one channel. Deal with it.

Now no I can’t do ALL of this on this one little computer but, having it to work on means I can get more done more efficiently.

So many exciting things are happening right now.

So go buy the book. Or come join me on Patreon. I’m so about this life right now.

And having Patreon and these side hustles means I can keep being about it.

And that’s super exciting.

Self Care Like A Boss has Landed.

Right now when this posts I am on a bus on my way to work.

Right now, right this instant you can buy my book.



Click the cover and get your wallet cause it’s going down.

This is for real real.

If you can’t buy the Ebook right now don’t worry. It’s going to be available for a long time AND you can get some free preview material over here.

I’m so pleased and amazed to be able to do this. I will write more later on about the process and the depth of work emotionally and writing wise that’s gone into it.

But for now, come on and get the book. Share it with your friends and let’s all learn to human.



Yeah Write #228 Entry- This Morning Needs Yelling another Billy Remix

This Morning Needs Yelling- another Billy Remix


Shannon Barber

In the beginning, Billy was only another loud mouthed baby. Unlike his sister and brother, Billy was no fast flyer. He was last out of the nest and wailed as he flapped his little wings. He was not brave and he was not a good hunter.

The one thing that made poor Billy special was his voice. Billy screamed the loudest when he was still piebald and pink and blind, all the birds could hear him cry.

“Mama, Daddy, hungry. Food. Food. Food! Food!”

The Corvidae and hawks, the sparrows and humming birds, even the penguins all learned of Billy and his legendary voice.

In the beginning, one could only hear the voices of the birds late in the mornings. Deep into bright primordial bird mornings they twittered and fluttered softly in the trees, gently waking up and feeding peeping chicks, easing themselves into a world very full of things that were not birds.

Until Billy.

Billy looked around his lush world and burst with bird pride. His feathered friends were all so lovely in their ways, he loved the strutting peacocks and the gabbling chickens. He loved the tiny hummingbirds and their whistling snores. He loved the smart starlings and screaming cockatoos.

Bird kind.

His kind made him feel things he could not quite articulate. The other birds tolerated Billy. He was a runt and loud and irritating, but among bird kin, he was the beloved misfit.

One morning while watching the sky turn from steel gray to soft, violent pink and orange and then finally pale yellow, Billy wanted to do something. He saw the other animals doing things, some of them trundling off to bed, others shaking off the morning dew and greeting the new day. Billy brooded.

“Billy, what are you brooding about?”

Billy tucked his head, the big raven was so pretty he could barely whisper in response. She was talking to him, of all birds she spoke to him.

“I dunno. Things.”

The big raven chucked him under his beak gently and turn to fly off chuckling to herself.

“Silly little pip.”

Billy knew the other birds laughed at him, but he didn’t care. He knew he had a gift, if only he could figure it out.

Another migration, another few weeks of poor Billy flapping his little heart out, but finding himself at the rear of the flock staring at birdy ass for hundreds of miles. Given the monotony of the view Billy had time to think and plan. He remembered from last winter that the place they spent those months was warm and had a light unlike any other he’d ever seen at dawn.

After resting for the night in a grove of pretty trees with rattly wide green leaves Billy knew what he had to do.

At the barest glimmer of deep pewter dawn Billy woke and stretched his wings, he looked around at his brethren sleeping hither and thither in the glorious trees. He found a good view and watched the light incrementally lighten until the golden moment and Billy did what Billy was born to do.


Billy stood as tall as he could screaming into the sweet dawn light.  As Billy shouted the others woke up, ruffling their feathers, squawking and making a ruckus.

Below them, something else happened.

For a moment the other animals were still and then the birds heard the chorus of disgruntled land anchored creatures.

“Shut the fuck up Billy.”

“Billy god damn it, shut up.”

The other birds soon joined Billy’s chorus. From the rooks to the ravens, the hummingbirds and finches, cockatoos and even the cranky old geese chimed in.


From then on, the other birds never laughed at Billy again. Every morning they rose and let their voices go. Great squawkings and peepings. Screamings and wailings from tree to tree horizon to horizon.

And so it is even this morning.

We only have mother fucking Billy to blame.



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