I’m a hodgepodge today
partly truce and partly friction
In angelic disarray
I veil myself in primrose and rhyme
and skate across a frozen lake
past chilled goblins on stilts &
princesses pierced with sorrow and doubt
the day surrenders to a night of unsightly sounds
strangled breaths emerging from the lower depths
the dance of the crows has begun

Pretty Persuasion

beginning

I skate around the mall
with a walkman tuned into
subversive sounds
I am in search of secret passageways
people of unusual genders
spaces of unabashed desire
The teenage girls with
nasty tongues never look at me
yet they tell me stories from afar
strange, exotic tales
they could never have gotten
from television
they dress in layers
in bizarre mosaic patterns indecipherable
I listen for simple truths
yet hear only complex lies
which, of course, are much more trustworthy
I purchase working class lingerie
(I mean, underwear) at Sears
from a salesgirl who KNOWS
but will never tell
I plead with her to scream it out
reveal the source of her despair
but she just laughs heartily and
steals away into the hardware section
I call the security guards
who arrest me for wearing plaid socks
with a leather skirt
I manage to escape between the cracks
and return unscathed to the scene of the crime...









middle

I light a cigarette
though I don't know how to smoke
it seems natural at the time,
I cross my legs
right over left, left over right,
then I refasten my garter,
smooth my skirt,
fluff up my *******
I'm anticipating something
but I'm not quite sure what it is
a recurring moment, perhaps
a (parenthetical thought), maybe
the merger of parallel lines
that's it, the merger of parallel lines
I remember vividly the secret dance
I used to perform
when I was nine and yearning
so awkward
so strange
so utterly incomprehensible
yet it could not be denied
it had a raw beauty to it that exhilarated me
I check between my legs
to see what gender I am today
I find nothing in particular except
an old beat-up baseball mitt
and two dozen rose petals
"I must be a boy," I say to myself,
though I can't be certain,
I never am, but I never give that away
there are much better things to give away
imaginary kisses
telltale signs
sideways glances
I dream of climbing Mt. Everest in my Maidenform bra
I never reach the peak
I wake up in a cold sweat...

end

We make love in a vacant lot
as it was meant to be
cold asphalt below
full moon above
crickets chirping madly in the background
He is my dada Daddy
I am his exotic drag princess in heat
when we kiss, our fantasies collide
explode
immersing us in minute particles
of lust and longing
He touches me as if I wasn't there
when I cry out for more
he gives me less
the pleasure is all too much
so I revel in the pain
He draws his sword
and I my water pistol
we duel for hours into days
he backs me into a corner
I dive between his legs
and make a run for the abandoned space
between provocation and allure
between outrage and surrender
between perception and scandal
He calls for me
he pleads for me
he paints his face by numbers
and recites nursery rhymes for me
remembering my name for the first time in weeks
I reach out and pull him deep within
and hope he hasn't forgotten how to swim...

My grandfather was a high priest
a conjurer
a man who denied his own existence
he never played with guns until he shot himself
     when no one was looking
I was 11 years in the making
     slowly brought to fruition
pale of skin, almost colorless
my father did not know what to do with me
he would stare me down in the middle of the night
I learned to look away
or perhaps I was looking right at him

I took to tears easily
and threw tantrums even when I was happy
I once stood on my head
     for 3 days, 2 hours & 27 minutes
my parents took me to a shrink
     who was also a gymnast
I spoke upside-down to him
he nodded his head and tapped his feet
     and cartwheeled across the room
but I don’t think he really understood
My other grandfather was a Civil War general
     or maybe it was the Spanish American war
he spoke in anagrams and wove intricate tapestries
     he gave to the needy
he died late in life of a variety of sketchy illnesses

I was told he never laughed
neither did he sigh much
he was actually a lawyer
but where’s the poetry in that?
There are no dancers in my family, alas,
nor circus acrobats
but I’m pretty sure there were sailors going way back
and perhaps a pirate or two
     and definitely a damsel in distress






My parents met on a foggy foggy day
from then on they never saw each other clearly
still they married & had children
     one two three and four
one was a boy with a great hook shot
two was also a boy who could run and run and run
three was me
and four was a girl who got lost in the shuffle
We settled in a ramshackle bungalow on Park Avenue
no, wait, that’s some other family’s tall tale

I began to grow wings at the age of seven
but I refused to learn to fly
kids would taunt me and tease me
saying, “Fly, angel boy, fly!”
They once dragged me to the edge of a cliff
     and flung me over
I just rolled up into a ball and spun downward
multiplying numbers in my head to dull the pain
when I landed on the ground I tossed my wings aside
and skipped backwards all the way home

One summer’s day
     sick with fever and crows battering my brain
I discovered something inexplicably enticing
it fell upon my shoulders
down my chest and torso
I began speaking in tongues
became a true believer
my mother found tell tale signs one Christmas Eve
On that most silent of nights
she raised her voice
and demanded answers
I took the Fifth
     not knowing what I was doing,
         how could I explain it
She brought in the doctors and the experts
and even a shaman or two
they examined me up
they examined me down
they tested my brain waves
they locked me in a closet filled with suits and ties
they made me watch westerns & war movies
morning noon and night
and when the tumult and the shouting
     and the misguided attempts
          to brand me with normalcy died down
I gathered up my tears and danced once again
     into a sweet and mysterious underworld

In a fleeting panic
my body aching
my head in manic
I was fitted for depression
by my fashion shrink
cosmic blue straightjacket
boots of shocking pink
Day-Glo eyelashes
and a faux stole of mink
I walked the streets of Soho
and climbed the Factory walls
a girl betwixt
a boy between
everybody’s darling
till morning came to town
in my corset of denial
I took cover in the rain
and sang naughty little ditties
seeping from the recesses of my brain
I tripped my way to Bellevue
where a thousand plastic junkies
awaited my return
I fell into their fancy
and we frolicked amidst our lies
and hopped aboard an east bound train
to a velvet paradise

The last garden they planted
was prickly and difficult
tomatoes that looked like loons
strawberries dripping with oil
the earth was parched
despite torrents of rain

“the world spins round and round
      yet nothing falls and nothing's found”

       There can be no revolution
without black negligees.
Shout, if you must,
but learn to whisper, too.
There can be no revolution
without question marks.

“the world spins round and round
      yet nothing falls and nothing's found”

I’m going to wash my face
in cold ash and bitter tea
and aim for that space
where everything penetrates
and my body levitates
above the fractured light

“the world spins round and round
      yet nothing falls and nothing's found”

A woman, tearful and tuneful, on a trapeze in a silken skirt, balancing the days, she is 51 years old, her hair is wild and red, she wakes up each morning with a hum and a scream; she keeps a diary of forgotten days, of memories not yet remembered; she dreams of burning man, dust swirling all around her, building her own temple of lust and forgiveness; she wears a black lace garter belt with stockings high up her legs; she takes her time when there is none to take, and hurries herself when the days seem endless; in September, she flourishes, dancing in the shadow of the sun, all trees become climbable, each word spoken has meaning; she is not at all in love, but soon will be, she muses, he will be a fiddle player, tall and lean, they may never kiss, they may never make love, but the haunting sounds he weaves in their bed will be more than enough...

b done with me Jesus
i’ve served my time
prayed for 99 days
climbed a glass mountain
b done with me Jesus
my spirit went wandering
my heart’s in cold storage
my soul’s beneath Jack boots
b done with me Jesus
I can’t feel you no more

in a tiny hotel
with only one room
and a single bed
that folds up into a chair
a light flickers throughout the night
people go there to forget
to forgive
to disintegrate
to reinvigorate
my story is of a woman
stressed in multiples
and tired from prayer
she unlayers herself for sleep
first the anvil
then the gun
she dreams of stark blues
and ransomed kisses
she awakens in a house
a 1000 miles away
her husband is not her husband
her children are not her children
her life, somebody else’s,
she can only smile
as she awaits a brand new day...

layer upon layer
of joy and insurrection
if I die
let me be in my finery
not red
that would be all too much
and especially not black
that would be so obvious
white, with intricate lace, might be nice
but enough about my death
for this is my wedding day
and I have just painted on my smile