Waking as a woman, new skin glistens and the skies are bluer
My baggy clothes fit no longer,
and my window pane is the devil's eye
Heels tap tarmac
Hair long, singing, alive, loving
Wolf whistle samurai, old me dies
This is how it feels to be accepted
Nightfall doldrums, walls sweat profusely, laughing
Skin tight clothes, constriction, regret,
and liquid death like poison in the throat
Gang dem talk loud, wolf whistle predator
Racing rabbit, running running run, run
Cold breeze silence
and sobbing into the handbag
Waking as a spirit, ethereal pleasure
The re-appropriation of gender
and manic transcendence
When I was little I used to play with dolls
I was obsessed, every birthday, they were all I’d want
They were mostly barbies but I had a few kens too
So my barbies could date, because that’s what people do
I used to match them up, the prettiest barbie was me
And the most handsome Ken, well that was who I’d need to be with
They would go on dates to the barbie mall
I had a little set with the shops and all
Barbie would go get her hair done in the hair salon
And Ken would go to the gym, work out, and get strong
Because that’s what I thought boys and girls were supposed to do
See without a second thought, that’s what I was told was true
So I as I grew up, I set out to find a Ken of my own
Someone I could love, with whom I would grow old
But no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find the right guy
No-one in my grade one class seemed to fit the bill
And I just couldn’t figure out why
And as I grew up, it seemed everyone around me did too
And next thing I knew my barbies were in a box going to the thrift shop
With all the clothing I’d outgrew
Middle school came, people started dating
My best friend got a boyfriend and started acting kind of vacant
People would never give up on asking who I liked
And they wouldn’t believe me when I said no one so I
Picked a guy, one of my friends, convinced myself I liked him
So the questions would end
Before I knew it, high school arrived
The first day of grade nine English, a beautiful girl caught my eye
I remember riding the bus home after school that day
And that little voice in my head said "hey Abby, you're gay"
Nah, no way, not at all, not me.
I’ve liked guys before, so it really can't be
I mean I'm fine with others being gay but that is them I'm me
I'm straight, I'm normal, not a character on glee
Throughout the next few weeks, as I got to know this girl better
The thought wouldn’t leave me alone, it kept running through my head and
So eventually I thought you know, enough is enough
I’m straight as an arrow, my thoughts can fuck off
Fuck this girl, no, not like that, in a metaphorical sense
Despite everything I secretly wanted, I pushed the thought out of my head
High school continued, the months dragged by
I even managed to convince myself I liked a couple guys
But something had changed, people were always asking if I was alright
They said I seemed down, and, well, they were right
I didn’t know why at the time, didn’t put two and two together
But denying myself of who I truly was, it wasn’t making things better
But then, one miraculous day, I was sitting with her at lunch break
My head was on her shoulder, and the thoughts, they came back again
But this time instead of bluntly saying “oh hey Abby, you’re gay”
They said “admit it, you know you really want to stay
Here forever, with your head on her shoulder”
And I thought damn I’m right, and then I looked over
At my friend, this girl, and before I knew what I was saying
The words came out of my mouth, hey um, I think I’m gay
Or maybe bisexual, I don’t really know, but you see there’s this girl
And I think I’m really into her
And she just looked at me, and I was so scared she was going to say
Something like ew, we can’t be friends if you’re gaaay
But she just said oh cool, is it anyone I know
And I laughed to myself, but still the relief flowed
Through me I had finally said it, admitted it, it was out there
I, Abby, kind of like a girl
And I had no idea what this meant for me, for my future
But I knew I felt like a huge weight had just lifted off my shoulders
Fast forward, one year later, I still liked that same girl a lot
She figured out it was her, but she was straight so that sucked
At that point, I was out to more people, almost everyone at school
And everyone accepted me, and I wasn’t the only queer one too
But then picture this, I’m sitting in a car wash
My mom and sister are in the front seat
And for some reason, it just came out of my mouth
Hey mom, Evy, I’m gay
For a second everyone sat there not knowing what to say
The water pounding on the roof of my car, until then my mom said
“Of course, we already knew you are”
So this was it, I was out, I soon told my dad
Well technically my mom told him but that wasn’t as bad
As it sounds, it’s a long story, for another time,
All I know is that at this point, I was no longer denying
Myself of who I was, but that self hatred that had harvested
When I was at my lowest point it never really went away
And yeah that’s something I struggle with even to this day
But at least I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am gay
Met an old friend A
He says women are the greatest vocabulary
AWESOME , AMAZING , ARDENT, ARDAMANT
And Look what B has to say
BEAUTIFUL, BRILLIANT, BODACIOUS most women are
CHARMING, CALM, CAUTIOUS, COURTEOUS
Women are THE FINEST DIAMONDS in the sky
Complements D, DASHING, DEAR, and DILIGENT to be exact
EASTERN ELEGANCE, Western ELITES
ENERGETIC, ELEGANT, EMOTIONAL
E is right women are EXTRAORDINARY
FLAMBOYANT, FUN, FUNNY, FANTASTIC F says
Women are central FIGURE of FAMILY
G- GREAT, GRACEFUL, GENTLE
H- HAPPY, HELPFUL, HANDY
INTERESTINGLY some women are IMPATIENT
JOYFUL they are, K- head of KISSES
MARVELOUS symbol of MODESTY
NEAT, NOBLE and very NICE
Women are pretty ORNAMENT
women are PRICELESS PRINCESS
Women are QUEEN
Women are RARE gift
main source of SURVIVAL the human being
women have true spirits of love
women are a peaceful UMBRELLA
women are the VALLEY of love
women are WONDERFUL WATER,
women are XOXO
women are egg YOLK, bad cholesterol but you eat THEM
last but not least
ZEALOUS women have great ZEAL
She sits in the hospital bed
Anxiously awaiting the news
As the doctor looks between the legs of her newborn child
And the mother cries as she finds out
Whether her baby is a girl of a boy
The sister of the mother calls up the father
She wants to know what kind of toy to buy
For the newborn, blue or pink
It all depends on whether it is a girl or a boy
First day of kindergarten lunch in hand
Backpack on back I enter the class
First activity of the year kids get divvied up
Based off of whether we are a girl or a boy
During the snack break we can go and use the restrooms
Two huge doors with signs that tell me
Which one I should use
It depends on whether I am a girl of a boy
Summer comes and because I ‘m in 5th grade
I am finally old enough to go to sleep away camp
Camp Jihuaga is on a beautiful lake
With miles of land divided into two main sections of cabins
Which side you’re on is based off of whether you are a girl or a boy
Middle school arrives, first dance of the year
All my friends had dates but nobody had asked me
So I set out to find my own date
But they laughed at me and asked
Whether I was a girl or a boy
High school, first day, second period, phys ed
I exit the locker room into the gym
And see a big barrier moving across the middle
And she side I got stuck on reminded me
Of whether I am a girl of a boy
Finally I decide it’s time for me to get a job
So I put together my resume and picked up an application form
I filled everything out perfectly fine
Until I was left with just one question
The paper sat there and asked me
If I am a girl or a boy
And I sat there I hovered and I realized something terrible
All my life I had just automatically assumed I was a girl
There were social conventions set up
A path for me to follow
Since before I had even left the hospital
And because of that I had never stopped and thought
About whether I am a girl of a boy
And I looked at that paper my hand moved back and forth
From each of the choices and I thought to myself
I know I’m not a boy
I’ve known that all my life
But I don’t think I’m a girl
Cause that just doesn’t feel right
And I felt like I’d been lied to for my entire life
All these signs on bathroom doors asking me to pick my choice
Of whether I am a girl of a boy
After a few days of thinking
And a good nights sleep
It cam to me in the shower
As does everything really
But I figured it out
Turns out I’d been looking in the wrong places
Trying to find where I fit in the spectrum of gender
Because I knew it was possible
To be neither a girl nor a boy
So I looked in between
At all of the possible combinations
Of girl and boy and boy and girl
And all of the gender queer and non binary identities
But what I had to do was step out of the boxes
First I stepped out of the box that enclosed the gender binary
Opened myself up to a whole spectrum of genders
Then I stepped out of that box
The one incloseing gender itself
And found a home in the lack of
So next time someone asks me
Whether I am a girl or a boy
I will look them in the eyes
And proudly say I am neither
I am agender
I waited 8 periods, 7 hours, in between searching for you, running around the corridors,
Like a psychosis affected patient running trying to find reality through delusions,
But "planet", ironically you are my delusion, miles away from the brutal reality.
My excuses to see you were drying up; sprinting to the top floor that maybe you‘ll come across,
Ecstatic like a 5 year old kid, when his rents buy him a toy helicopter,
Disappointed like the poor kid as his helicopter crashed on the first day itself.
You’re nerdy, the only guy studying java and oracle with interest, enticing me with your mint and cedar scent,
This infatuation is eating my heart up, slowly and slowly, like cancer
I came today only to see you, desperately clinging to the belief that maybe you’ll come to see me too.
But I was left alone, with the burning sun as my only companion.
I woke up hours early, straightening my hair till my hair were singed, applying mascara till my eyes burned.
I fancied, that possibly you might think of me too, day dream of me too,
but darling curse me for being a hopeless teen, as its getting me nowhere.
Everyone keeps telling me its never going to happen, I’m a junior and you a sophomore
& when your azure lids never glance my way, my face turns ashen, even during the Indian summer.
And who am I to even try to fight with the bitter truth,
for it’s always destroying our little fragile hearts and drowning them in acid and absinth
It was so silly of me to even give into these treacherous day dreams, to even let my pride escape.
I was absurd enough to even like you, knowing even then, that I will never be able to solve this Rubik cube.
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
it’s not the same when you touch her chest with your breath
what her heart hears is off key and she compares it to the best
bedtime story she’s ever heard
the kind where she becomes little red riding hood herself
with a basket of goods
that everybody wants
but she doesn’t want to fuck any of them
because she already knows that it’s the same as a sunny day but with too much wind
or one of those green suckers with a big bug inside of it
“fuck off,” she says to all the wolves and all the pigs and all the fools
they still come at her like a family of bonobos come in a day
it’s hard to run away from something that is happening to you all the fucking time
it gets you sick with a hook,
the short moments it stops happening, all you want is to run and find it
because attention is softer than loneliness
even if it is as sad as an addict tearing off couch cushions, in search of half a dime bag
- but as soon as she stopped looking for a face with eyes to love her
she took a dip in the forest, heard the birds
felt the pine needles on her bare feet bottoms,
sang like Snow White
and found herself an old lumberjack, building a house
it dawned on her that all the wolves and all the pigs and all the fools,
looked real fucking gross
There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.
I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a quaint english archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of zeus.
I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.
I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.
Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills
So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.
The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.
I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.
i want to sit on my own in an old diner booth and pretend that
the lady who serves me is the love of my life
i want to tangle my limbs with daisy chains and become the
perfect idea for a beautiful poem
i want to be your last resort
your only option, your turning point
i want to swallow rose petals and grow into something
so much more beautiful
i want to bury myself under piles and piles of your letters
and pretend that i don't exist anymore
i want to taste the salty oceans on your skin
i want to go cover myself in books of poetry
in some pathetic attempt to take control of my life
Here, on the flatlands
I was put in my place.
formed and pressed
into their neat and presumably safe little box.
It's all they knew.
It is so hard to think of them as once children themselves,
formed and pressed.
Formed from a different time, with different conformists.
There are no manuals when we are born,
you get leftover instructions from previous pipe fitters.
Agrarian raised, like grain fed beef.
Complete with the fears and habits of bygone generations.
I leave one bite of each item on my plate,
with just enough drink to wash it all down.
I have done that as long as I can remember.
I want the whole candy bar, rather than just a bite.
Pressed and formed my Father saves.
He saves twist ties from bread bags.
He saves old welcome mats, and garage door openers.
He buys in bulk, and has two deep freezers full.
Full of freezer burn, tasteless, barely nutritious,
neatly formed and pressed portions of frozen in time Salisbury steak.
It is as if he himself would like to be frozen in time.
He is a depressionite child.
In the basement there is an old dresser that he found at a yard sale.
He painted it a hideous green,
but it has a formed and pressed neat white little doily on top.
In the top drawer there are various expired drugstore items,
some dating as far back as 35 years ago.
"You never know when you might need something in there."
Expired aspirin that has broken down into powder and smells of vinegar.
Vicks Vaporub, in the pretty blue glass jar, that is dried up and orderless.
All brand new and have never been opened.
Formed and pressed neatly in their little containers.
I watch these molders of my life slowly pass away,
becoming neatly formed and packed into their aging corner of the world,
neatly formed and packed into a stereotypical old folks home.
Forgotten, in the way, slow, aching.
Soon all they will have will be memories.
Soon all they will need will be memories.
Neatly formed and packed in their aging minds.
And then, like a comet that has shuttled through space
for thousands of years, millions of years,
they will burn out and fade into dust.
And their whole lives
will be neatly formed and packed
in a trunk
in the attic,
to be opened like a time capsule,
at a later date.
the result of a week with my 94 yr old Parents