Sunday, April 26, 2015


I’m trying to tell a story
but the words get in the way.
Indented implies and royal pauses
implicate language’s conspiratorial play
to confuse and obscure the causes,
of rubbish gathered from the day.

I’m going to build a skyscraper
rising unending stacks
tower of babel is a series of floors
swaying paragraphs that crack
as mounting meter of rampart soars
iambic measures we track.
I’m slowly daming this river
whose currents never cease
logic and lyrics vortex pool
divert me from the path of peace
and roping myself with trade and tool
to streams of tales I release.

I’m whipping this beast to tame
unbridled animals rage
lashing scars of meter rest
saddling the wild sage
that keeps the gallops best
on to this domesticated page.

Friday, April 24, 2015

The Gospel According to F#ggots



Aurin Squire

Written By Aurin Squire

Directed by Aurin Squire and Zi Alikhan

Friday-Saturday, May 1-2 @ 8:00pm
Sunday, May 3 @ 6:00 pm

Tickets: $16 General | $10 Low-Income [Buy Tickets]

CAST: James Edward Becton, Israel Gutierrez, Joey Lozada, Nathaniel Ryan, Donnell E. Smith

“The Gospel According to F#ggots” is a multimedia queer translation of Biblical text through verse, video, and vogue. It’s a Church pageant play remixed and remastered into an epic journey that combines poetry, movement, and music.

If Jesus was a radical rabbi who walked around in a dress with 12 men…wait, that’s what he actually was but he has been whitewashed into by capitalism, patriarchy, and heterosexuals into a shaming, punishing, saint. He has become a sacrificial lamb of the cross. But that’s not what he preached about. If he were alive today, Jesus would probably vote for Nader, live off-the-grid, and ask people to love in whatever form i takes: homo, hetero, queer, transgender, transgressive, progressive. This is the story of the new Jesus, which reads more faithfully to how the old Jesus probably lived and thought back then, and why he was such a radical figure.
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About the Artists

Aurin Squire (2014/15 Artist in Residence) is an award-winning multidisciplinary artist and activist. His plays and installation art has been seen at numerous venues throughout Western Europe, Canada, Great Britain, and across the United States. Squire is a 2-time winner of the Le Compte Nuoy Prize from Lincoln Center and is completing his two-year Lila Acheson Wallace Playwriting fellowship at The Juilliard School. He also has 2014-2015 fellowships at the National Black Theatre and the Dramatists Guild of America. As a journalist, his work has appeared in The New Republic, Talking Points Memo, Brooklyn Rail, The Chicago Tribune, Miami Herald, and ESPN. Squire has served as a writer/producer for several web projects around queer culture, voting rights, and activism. He has been a member of the Lincoln Center Lab and the Ars Nova Play Group.

Zi Alikhan (co-director) | Zi was raised in suburban Northern California by two Indian immigrants. After two years as a Sociology major at UC Berkeley, Zi transferred to NYU to pursue a BFA in Musical Theatre at the Tisch School of the Arts. It was at NYU that Zi first learned that theatre could be more than just tap dancing on a boat, that theatre could be a change agent and social tool. At NYU, Zi developed a love for documentary plays, queer theatre, new play development, and re-interpreting classic texts through contemporary social lenses.

James Edward Becton, a graduate of Niagara University and product of Stella Adler, is beyond honored to breathe life into this fantastically artistic statement. James Edward is associated with The Classical Theatre of Harlem, the New York Theatre Workshop, LaMama, and The Workshop Theatre Company, just to name a few. He has worked with directors Austin Pendleton, Sue Lawless, George Ferencz,and Frank Licato. To see more of his work and experience, feel free to stop by his website:

Israel Gutierrez hails from San Antonio, TX via San Benito, TX in the Rio Grande Valley. He has been seen in shows like NY/Off Broadway: Caligula, Theatre Row; Aurin Squire’s To Whom It May Concern; Romeo and Juliet, Pulse Ensemble; Jackson Heights Trilogy, Theatre 167. Select Regional: Comedy of Errors / Hamlet, Virginia Shakes; Laughter on the 23rd Floor / The Imaginary Invalid / Kimberly Akimbo, The Schoolhouse Theatre; St. Louis Rep, New Court Theatre. TV/FILM: Elliot Loves (HBO, TLA Dist, dir Terracino); Macys Stars on Broadway (CBS, dir Ryan Stana, 2009 Emmy Award, Best Special Event); I was also on Dance Moms. Ensemble Master Class at The LAByrinth. BFA, Acting, Webster Conservatory. AEA/SAG/AFTRA

Joey Lozada hails from Connecticut. He attended the American Musical and Dramatic Academy. Recently Joey has been seen in: Pedro Pan (Truf, Roger), The Tempest (Hip to Hip, Trinculo), and Defacing Michael Jackson (Red Shirt, Obadiah). As always, thanks to my friends and family for their constant love and support.

Nathaniel Ryan | Life has been an amazing journey so far for me. Growing up in New York I never dreamt of being an Actor and Model. I remember I wanted to make video games or be a pro wrestler. The dreams of my childhood slowly faded away and I settled for running track and field in high school and college. My dream of going to the Olympics was denied with continuous arthritis in my knees. After working for several years in Corporate America in the financial industry I decided life behind a desk was not for me. I moved back to New York, into the house I grew up in, in 2011. Being back in New York has taught me a lot and I have talked about it in my monthly blog ‘Train 2 Broadway’. My goal.. to be the best actor that I can be.

Donnell E. Smith | Baltimore-born, Donnell E. Smith has come a long way, initially starting his creative pursuits as a Singer & Songwriter. Since transitioning to Actor, he always makes a point of immersing himself in projects that fulfill the thrill and challenge he seeks. He is IMMENSELY THRILLED to continue the journey of “The Gospel…” and humbly thanks his family, friends & mentors for their invaluable love & support, thus far. “This is for they who have ignited, nurtured, influenced and elevated the passion that burns from within, out. I share Ephesians 3:20.”

To learn more about Aurin Squire and The Gospel According to F#ggots visit

Monday, April 20, 2015


Vanishing lifespans of love.
Used to be years and months.
Shortened to holiday weekends
and then in between meals.
Infatuation condensed to
flickering light shutters.
Opening and closing aperture edit
engagement and divorce,
infatuation and amnesia.
lust and disease.

Deja vu is now any previous pause,
fading echoes of endearment,
this lingering glance of a hand,
the cool remains of pillow’s sigh,
a burning veil of lips crinkling
into white smoke,
waning shadows
that lingers in the back of eyes.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Vulgar Folks

1st whip n' piss of spring on my subway.
Goat-stench of a man staggered up,
yanked his licorice black cock
into fluorescent view.

Passengers scramble to the other side
but I stayed close and cozy,
a curious need for depravity.
Warm waves from his spongy pink slit
splashed across the floor
lapped against the steel pole.
I considered tossing Old Faithful out,
as he was in the high-tide of mid-piss
...but that we would be rude.

Stuffing his exhaustion back into jeans
the goat-man grabbed a glob of vaseline
from his wet pockets and smeared
the yellow congeal over his face into
a shiny mask of petroleum.
he spread across his head and down his neck

I got off train and the streets were blocked off
police tape and roving cops circumambulate
an ominously isolated van in middle of road
and the words 'SWAT Team' being mentioned.
And all this after a folk song musical
that Disney-fied Woodie Guthrie and his life.

The most vulgar act of the night was the musical.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Gypsy Dolls

These gypsy beggars drug their babies
better to carry them all day.
Lolling doll heads cradled to withered sunken chest
Needle stigmata on tiny hands
wet with vodka shots and whiskey sweats
of this parading nightmare
through subways cars,
down alleys noosed to scribbled signs
made by pushers and pimps.

Shackled to that promissory fix
in exchange for the beggars cup.
Milkless breast weeping black tar
on dirty scarves worn to cover
cigarette burns, track marks, razor scars.
Insertion points to punish and pleasure
women sold into bondage.

Interchangeable parts: the women and babies.
Paired up and pushed out to saunter
with kabuki masks of horror.
Strike pity in the hearts of pedestrians,
street vendors, cops, passengers.
Even the clouds shower them in tears
knowing man’s carnal machination
snare unwanted newborns and prostitutes
into a charity masquerade.

These babies want for no food now,
only the syringe soothes their noddings
and placid drools. Their uncrying eyes shut
to the blinding light of day.
they only see at night now,
only the moon is known to
their burning bodies.  

When they are killed it’s by overdose,
wanting all day sleep and no profit impediments
the men shoot them full of heroin
until they stop thrashing about
and become that perfect little beggar doll.

Their seizures wake the women,
writhing in the tied-cloth shoulder cradles
Little fist-shaped hearts tear tissue,
rupturing tender muscles
into shocked contortions.

And out comes the bloodshits.
And out comes foaming fermented vomit
gurgling cries, lightning stabs their eyes
flung back eyelids reveal silver and purple iris
fluttering like falling leaves.

Some times the women carry the dead babies
for the rest of the day as props.
snaking through the Port Authority,
running down your back, poking out your eyes
carrying the swollen stones that used to have names
but will now be churned back into
the nameless pity that creeps like well water
into the eyes of Gods.
And here comes that gasping exhale,
when lungs empty the ethereal into wind.


they are parched past participle
Dessicated dehydro jangling on
strings of half-chances.
shadow puppets animated
by southern sultan with caravans
of harems, wenches, and briefcases
bulging with aphrodisiac sacks.

get that drip drop opp,
hang on a hair of hope,
whisper in a dog whistle.
fishhook minnowing miracles
masquerading as Moby Dick.
when only trace remains,
chalk shadows as outlines
of sidewalk corpses splattered.

starving people fight over scraps.
and brothers scrap for loosies
and lost causes between pauses.
fed from crumbs swept off
master’s table and stomped down floorboards
dogs eat down here below the house
in this trench of tripe,
offal and hookworm bellies.  
hushpuppies tossed to night,
send the wolves away from servant slaves
cooking in the smoked hut behind the big house.

this is a hunger that eats itself.
intestine envelopments constricts
acid dissolve tongues and lets us drink

our own tastes and famine.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

A Fading Orchestra

Slender sore throb of vibrato in delta marshes.
I tune the strings, plucking notes sharp and flat
high C electric at the bridge, dips my shoulder.
Baritone G flat grumbles in the red shell of my knee.

The orchestra plays out of tune.
The orchestra plays in the gap.

Each instrument adjusting rusted brown strings
termite infected sawdust in bass chest.

The orchestra musicians don't need a composer,
they don't even need to practice staccato timpani
accompanying piercing piccolo stabs.

Gershwin Rhapsody in Blue:
opens sour and sarcastic clarinet
curves akimbo, loosening the register.

The orchestra Traviatta and Figaro
in my splintered wood.

I become the sunken symphony chamber
clamoring the air with scored sheets falling to feet.

There is no orchestra playing, only notes now.
Each instrument a concave mirror
imploding into a coffin chrysalis.
Musicians smash their bows, crack dripping hands
slicing taut drum skin as it pours out dark vintage.

Echo notes. Mayhem crashes all around
and then the last fading ache
against the pitch black deaf.