Fiction and Poetry Books


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Mindwalker Diaries (Vols 1-12)


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Cover designs by Abraham Celaya (


Black Godess_100DPI

I am broken.
I am a man.
I am a wounded man.
I am a wounded woman
when I was a whole consciousness
not a duality
I was not a broken reflection.
I am feminine
no longer wounded
reflecting wounds.
I am the perfect feminine
conscious in a male form.

Many entities have ventured into this reality / this death sleep – to experience this form of existence as well as to heal this dreaming entity and rescue their comrades who have been caught / lost in the dreaming experience of this Time Event Entity. Creation is vaster and is not what your current human state of awareness thinks. You think there is one creator and that creator infuses all things. There are many creator entities; creation is limitless; awareness is vast but this human experiment has its limitations and has experiences to expand out of their limitations.

This limitation is about healing; it is about retrieving fragmented consciousness; it is about exploring ‘possibilities’ in limitation. Since this sector of creation is about duality; duality is expressed in many degrees, many forms, many emotional states; many physical perspectives and awareness is not limited to human forms.

There are entities that are not in human form who are intelligent beyond human comprehension. This current sleep / state of forgetfulness are being triggered to awaken. Awakening will mean destruction and rebirth. It will mean healing and moving some forms of consciousness into other forms of consciousness to continue their healing.

The entities who have penetrated; dream walked; and entered into physical creation of this Time Event Entity are healing an Entity who is trapped in its exploration and state of awareness and this Time Event Entity is moving into a new level of awareness.

Think of it as if your body has been experiencing an illness and various healing techniques have been applied. You feel better. Think of yourself as being a part of this entity; you are in a body of an entity as a particular part of this entity to carry out various functions.

Those entities who have entered into this Time Event Entity are ‘healers’ and ‘explorers’ and are experiencing a new levels of creation.

This awakening from sleep/death will affect all consciousness. Some parts of the ‘dream’ will not be awakened but fade away and the energies will be recast. You will see this as destruction; senseless violence but sometimes to move consciousness from its stagnate position; different forms of destructions take place; it is how you interpret it. Evil can help manifest good. But the problem is human’s concept of good harbors evil intentions.

The changes in the world are the awakening of an ancient Time Event Entity who is taking its rightful place in creation; this entity has been exiled; sequestered in a part of creation so its change/transformation/transmutation could be in sort of controlled environment. This Time Event Entity will take creation into levels of awareness that has not been seen and cannot be explained if your paradigm is still locked into control systems.

Something new will rise under a different sun.


49 Roses_PresenteTRANS OBITUARY
(In memory for a murdered trans woman)

“Pay attention to my body,” says a trans woman.
“Not a boy in a dress.
Don’t paint my face as acceptable
to matrix media.
Didn’t hear me alive
and still deny me dead.
Disfigure my potential.
Brutality is not a work of art.”

Don’t paint my old life as acceptable
for a colonizing media.
Didn’t ask for this finale, a brutal exit,
by a rage of hatred.
A political plate is passed to serve my mind,
my heart, my body, my color.
Thought it would be old age quietness,
laughing at memories.”

“I am welcomed by the murdered
trans women who are comforters
from the violence inflicted,
who wash off the tainted blood,
the hurt, the crazy,
the lamenting, the shouting
’Don’t kill me; I want to live’
from my eyes so
I don’t give the perpetrator
a voice and image inside my heaven.”

“Pay attention to my body,” says a trans woman.
“My heart says I am trans woman
and those who find this dead body
say this is a man without purpose;
a man who is lost; a confused one
as they shuffle their laughter
behind their political voice
and upturn eyes judge
but I see them from a place
they cannot go because
my god doesn’t like ugly
especially when it masquerades
as god loves them only
and not the Other,
the fringe dweller, the outcast.”

“Pay attention as you put away this body.
Discard me not in a news item marked
“Not important”. I know I will look back
with a comforting hand when another
trans woman is marked finale
before her time.

Voices of trans women murdered before
call out as psychopomps
…I see them, I will walk with them,
and sometimes an angel is a
tragic path just so you can
find the beat to the heart
to give you breathe;
to give you compassion; to awaken
the dead inside…back to life.

From “Dark Night Flesh” available Fall 2016
© Lorenzo Buford 2016
Graphic design by Abraham Celaya

…can’t have that other voice speaking
from the eyes; don’t look at strangers;
don’t look at anyone; eyes to the ground….
butch the walk; dull down the clothes,
take the voice out the hips and
lower the sensual purr and think like a hunter.

Will today be a bullet day; a hateful word
slashing off that smile
or cursed by a homeless person
whose head is full of demented voices…

and will I be dismissed from work
because I have too much snap;
ignored for promotion,
laughed at behind closed doors
and wonder if I can go out to lunch
without racist slurs being hurled
…my bubble burst…always…
before a repair service is called.

So I read a book on the bus, on
the subway not to make eye contact
because skin color like mine
is despised by males with sexual
hang-ups and if I can measure up
to the stereotype, I am scheduled for
a beat down….and even their eyes
are waiting to throw a knife, a bullet…

and hateful words are uttered by other
gays at happy hour about my color
and other colors because the rainbow
has restrictions and I’m not happy
so walking home late, you wonder
is god watching?; is someone lurking
in the shadows? and afraid that the
car slowing down is not offering
a candy cane but….

I’ve been beaten; been raped,
been cussed out, been denied
apartments; been harassed by the police
and wonder what world is this
that god does not exist but I know
demons like to masquerade as if
offering a helping hand with
poisonous words…

Each day I wake up hoping this
is not a nightmare on repeat but
other bodies of color meet
tragic ends; a moment of silence
and the noise of the world rules again;
and I am afraid when I leave home
I will be a statistic; not a name; not someone
who had a life; but a statistic
wheeled out when a political agenda
needs diluted or a politician needs
a place to shit rhetoric.

No matter where I walk, where
I sit…is this a safe place?…
Am I to be enveloped by Other’s
shadows and still I am supposed
to feel love…will it be love
in my heart when I don’t see life
passing before my eyes as I die
because someone has to make
their god better than mine.

I don’t want a burial day; or
think of wreaths when I step
out of my house but I know
today may be the last day
and did I say the things I need
to say before my color makes
me a victim because my color
doesn’t match their mental décor.
Must each day be a reminder I walk
through the valley of death and
shadows have guns, have knives,
have cars, have ropes, have ignorance
to guide their destroying hands.

Maybe today, I will paint a new
world in my mind…to walk within.

From “Dark Night Flesh” available Fall 2016
© Lorenzo Buford 2016
Graphic design by Abraham Celaya

Let me be a lighthouse in the dark places to shine the light on the path forgotten.
Let me be as a lighthouse, a companion to walk the lost to their loved ones.
Let me be a lighthouse in the tragic place and open the path to the ancestors.
Let me be a lighthouse; not judging but accepting and shining compassion.
Let me be a lighthouse, the silent sentinel shining light in all directions for those who are lost and confused in their transition.
Let me be a lighthouse to open a sacred space for the lamenting for saying their goodbyes.
Let me be a lighthouse in the tragic place so the Comforters can find the lost.
Let me be a lighthouse so the transitioning ones can know the angel’s hand reaching for them.
Let me be a light house always standing in the in-between places.

From “Dark Night Flesh” available Fall 2016
© Lorenzo Buford 2016
Graphic design by Abraham Celaya



(PART 1)
I was thinking today about the writer’s voice. I remember being in a play writing workshop when the director said, “You have a voice.” My response was, “Okay.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. The others he said in the workshop didn’t have a voice. I said, “But they are all getting paid to write except me. Also, they were all white men; most had resentment to the fact that I was invited to participate in the workshop. It was a struggle wanting to understand this “voice.” There was no camaraderie toward me in the group. I didn’t stay long. It was another situation of being the only black participating and race though not mentioned at time was always a background issue. I wanted to be a better writer that’s why I participate in several workshops. Most workshops were a hindrance; stilted creative but there were two that were inspiring. I remember one workshop where on the first day the person told me that they would never recommended me to a publisher but wanted to be sure I had my check to them on time. Another person said I wrote ‘to white’ black people do not speak like that. So I was perplexed. What is this voice several people had told me I had. Do I understand…yes and no. This I do know I am still writing. I write almost every day. The point I wanted to make in this short message was I kept reading different writers; different genres until I found particular writers that caught my attention and used them as role models. I also learned to trust what I felt regardless of others criticism. I made a conscious decision that I was not attempting to be a top ten writer, write for the masses but write what I like and if someone else liked it…yeah but writing was not about asking for permission or to emulate someone else. Most people wanted me to fit into a comfortable category. And being black, a man who loves men, I am expected to write about certain subjects. Write about what you know I often hear so what if I am Imagination…there is no category. I’ve said often, “Writing is like breathing.” I do not apologize nor explain my writing. I write. Sometimes it is inspired, sometimes it is sweat and tears. Bottom line is if I like it that it is. Everyone is a critic. A lot of critics are frustrated and feel they need to feel important and will slice and dice another person’s creativity. Sometimes the criticism is based on their limited perception and we make it “the way it is.” I say to writers, trust yourself. Read…read…read but most of all write and re-write. And when you stop for the day and there is a smile on your face…it is a yes day.