Patrick Mullen-Coyoy


Patrick Mullen-Coyoy is a queer, Guatemalan-Irish poet and college access advocate loving, living, and picking it up in Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti, MI. Along with increasing the number of students getting to and through college, they love stitching together poems about pop music icons like Ariana Grande. Their writing appears or is forthcoming in Barrelhouse, Gayly Dreadful, LIT Magazine, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Underblong Journal. You can follow them on Twitter (@aguacatemalteco) for more pop culture poetry, pedagogical geekery, and critical musings on their love life.

The Miracle of Living



I want to live in a world where queers don’t die

            and maybe that’s unrealistic, but

                  it happened in Black Mirror

                        so how far off can we be from that synthpop world

                        where two queers can drive off into sunsets of teased hair

            and trying to kill yourself doesn’t end in annihilation, but

                  your arms around me, tides

                        crashing against the shorelines of my shoulders

            reminding us that heaven can be a place

                                                                                    on a server

                                                                                    in a warehouse

                                                                                    on a television

                                                                                                          out of reach



I want to live in a world where queers don’t die

                      but have amnesia hard-wired into us

           like Janelle Monáe in Dirty Computer

and everything would be music

                          synapses sparking with

                                                    neuroplastic neon choreography

         recorded over recollections of us

                                        running from oblivion

  and grooving to beats stored in the cleft

                                                                             between my neck

                                                             and your mouth  

                                                our bodies electric 

                                                              transmissions beyond

                                                these soft reboots of






I want to live in a world where queers don’t die

         but if they have to, it could be like that book—

                                                you know, the one titled

                                                They Both Die at the End—

         with eleventh-hour warnings and

                          twenty-four-hour chances

                                                enough time to live


                                       a day full of eternal futures

                                                                              with no closure

                                                              beyond us

                                                                              in a karaoke bar

                                                  your fingers warm

                                                                              in the crucible of

                                                                  my palm

                                                                              our life lines

                       crystalizing into star-crossed synastry

                                                                              a romance

           spread out over an eight-minute instrumental

                                                                              the final harmony resolved

                                                               in the grave



I want to live in a world where queers don’t die

         because I’m so tired

                          of everybody telling me that it’s not enough

         to want a world beyond our survival

                           where I can dance

                                       and you can jive

and we can implore the bass-boosted gods of your car stereo

          to gimme gimme gimme a lifetime past

                                   this present

         just one dawn past midnight where you can lay your love

                          over the rhythm of my syncopated heart

                          the soundscape of two queers whose living

                                                 is miracle enough

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