Woah, haven't blogged here in a while...a poem for you

Been ages. Schools in session again and the world keeps on spinning...
I have missed you blogosphere
and blow kisses at my followers...

went to the gym today and again
fell in love with the woman who works the front desk.
You know ladies, the kind of woman who can make a t-shirt look glamorous. I wish I had a picture
so you could share my enthusiasm...alas, words will have to do...

to be her for an hour!


The crossdresser has a crush. For L who works at the gym.

45, 46, eyeliner crushed blue and ribbon silver
face cut by age, sharp as a A-line skirt
and as glowing as Venus' curves. She greets
and smiles
and knows not
of my trimmed legs
my lust to be in a body like hers:
tall, curvy, thick, hips that could crush mountains,
breasts to nurse the worst of us,
heart to love the best.

I work out,
and catch glances
of her, as if machines and cardio could imprint
her shape onto my lean coffin frame.

What she would think of me I dare not seek
for I know she is good and straight as she watches her desk,
manages accounts,
and would feel queer
and slighted
at my feminine wiles.

Wicked

and the black smoke is a skirt around my waist
as i shake and smote and bang my crotch against the air...
there is no chorus
only a sharp retort and my skin overtakes your skin
and your mouth overtakes mine
the swallows of our chests and lips
consume us like two snakes
eating each other out of hate

A sigh

Personally ladies, this spring has been good, but psychically rough. Like it or not I am/was a latent trans woman, like many of my generation, mostly because of socio-political-technological reasons. Transwomen/men today benefit so much from the internet. Not that it is an excuse, but growing up in such a kudzu culture... it took me a while.

Geez, if I were a teenager now, dealing with these same issues, my life would have a different arc.

That's not to say my life to date isn't valid...it is. But everyone else views your lifestyle as a choice, not necessity. You know that ennui, trans people, how there's that fuzzy, gauzy past, our past sexuality, our past identity, past whatever, that exists, that acts as a standard to the growth of the trans personae, the true personae.

Regardless...a friend asked me today "What do you want from this self?" It was an old friend, a straight friend. "What does this voice sound like?" He meant the tone...and all I could say was aggressive, confident, proud.


And I thought about that. And what that meant.

And I hadn't thought about what I wanted, I was just too busy being me for the first time.

I came up with an answer, that may change...




My hobby is mirror.

Lipstick, rouge and heel
peel back my skin and skull cap
and like a goddess spring forth
into my bathroom,
my smoke ring
like a laurel
upon my gigantic pretty head.
From lips smack truth,
pink, or brown, or fuck hot red,

and black, deep pitch, and yes, I suppose

I am a freak
and showed up at the wrong address, the wrong party,
my real body somewhere else
doing whatever manila chore it does when it isn’t with me.
‘cause I mean who wouldn’t
want to be with me?

I be illusion, drum, and wail
give me a scarf I can make seas sick
with my pitch and bob.

And so what? The stork is not a smart bird,
after all, I am not weak, and though my smile
makes you sick, some clown
in a dress, some perv with the nerve,
you say, I am iron, to reforge myself,

to be iron is to destroy stone.







Note: Manila is meant to recall vanilla. Lately my girlie self has been more...aggressive...thus the diva turn in tone towards the end. In my small town I am very aware of how most stones (trans-phobics) react to difference. Down here, from my porch, I better be ready to back it up.

Ciao!