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Hale Salafia Apr 2014
Gender is a ****.
Now bear with me, I don’t mean it in a bad way
I mean it as gender is elusive
Gender is tricky
Maybe with my words I should be more picky
But that’s not the point
The point is gender is something I cannot hope to begin to understand

Maybe gender is a universe
And within it we are all stars
Or maybe gender is an ocean
Not quite the Dead Sea where everything floats
And not quite everywhere else where everything sinks
But somewhere in between
And within it we are all jellyfish trying to string together a coherent stream of consciousness that somehow makes sense

And-see?
It’s getting away from me
I used to think gender was a binary
Male, female, *****, ******
Everything coincides so we all fit into this dichotomy
But that leaves no room for Alex who is sometimes Alex and other times Cassandra
Or Sasha who is somehow both at once
Or me who lays claim to no label, because all of them throw up a red light

There is one thing I do know as fact
Pronouns are not a privilege
They are a right

They, them, their:
Singular gender nonspecific pronouns
A customer came into the store today and bought twelve packs of gum
I didn't know what was on their mind, but
Maybe they wanted to kiss their lover full on the mouth while an orchestra of taste crescendoed around them
Caleb came into class today with two cupcakes
One for them and the other for their best friend who hadn’t shown up in two weeks
Claiming “She’ll be here today, don’t you worry”
And the rest of us lapsed into silence, knowing she was never coming back

She, her, hers
No longer will I suffer in silence as those I care most for
Call me something I am not
I am not your daughter, I am your child
I am not your sister, I am your sibling
I am not a girl
I am a nonbinary
I know it makes no sense
But if you just listen you might be able see
To escape the past tense
And start living in the future with me

No longer will we stay quiet
Duct tape over our mouths as we are locked behind closed doors
Buried beneath accusations of
Transtrender
Genderspecial
“You’re just pretending”
No longer will we stay silent
The wrong pronouns whipping our bodies into submission

It
Is not a pronoun
*******
Is not a compliment

You sit in the audience groaning
When will this queer shut up and go home
Isn’t it enough that we acknowledge your existence
But you don’t
I cannot count the times I have been misgendered
I cannot count the times I have wanted to speak up but didn’t
Knowing I would not be taken seriously

Now I will not be silent until there are no more stories of
Schoolyard oppression
Trans suicides caused by a “lesson”
I will scream myself hoarse until
Trans women can walk the streets in safety and
Bathroom means bathroom not
Execution
Remember this
As we are forgotten by our cis siblings
As we are told we don’t exist
As you, the cis  in the front row
Realize
That your daughter at home
May not be your daughter
At all
Just a poem born out of my frustration with gender
Answered, thus labeled because views a similarity. Who had this in the hand of the eye’s compact? If presence shifts to absence and believe it is safe in transit, what contract aspires to be an object used against it?

Here must be another present, moving thing for this nonattendance to take place. Its duty need not be nominal. And when it takes place, there is a guarantee for a statement: almost, to a certain extent. Had, adhered, temporary.

This was taken as an insistence of its exclusion as an avowal of its state: when a thing ceases to move, it has named a boundary all within a venue with already christened boundaries. To rise from its nomenclature, a question: what for is this mode? The unassuming and deliberate twofold of its chrome is indicative of something. There are only two possible answers to the question, but never warrants indemnity.

If amorphous then suitable to bend or assume over and over, a confrontational: to hold it against walls everywhere, its color only when dual fixing not a shadow, but the possibility of a shadow. To spill light over the malleable – notice how a body contorts.

If distinct then determined to traverse a straight line, a sanction: to furlough the idea of its controlled variable which is its many possibilities, its shape now not only a name but a force that deals with a believable architecture of compressed options. There is no need for appellation when related to dislimn as a shade is necessary for this disappearance to simulate. But the treachery is that when light surrounds no longer, form somehow a myth as if pausing all lightness to declare something: this is of two explanations merely a single.
Soluna Mar 2013
It’s not much, I mean, but
uh, nothing, sorry, man I got butterfingers
slippery as my tongue, here
did you drop something, are you sure?
cause my thump-thumping heart dropped
so hard to the floor when it knew you were near
that it bounced right back up
right where it goes, then straight out my crown chakra,
only to dissipate and erupt
into Truth
the literal and the metaphorical
allegorical nebulas that resonate in full high-definition colour the way
all Nine symphonies played simultaneously
would look
sedimentary, like a cheesecake

when I first saw you, something
shifted in my horoscope with the same scope and scale
of a modern Greek myth – Prometheus rising, fire
in the eyes of one woman, that’s all
all Aphrodite could gather up—fix it to the mainstay, Odysseus
let’s get to it, in siren seas, eating weeds to survive
if there’s nothing left when Cthulu
comes alive, I hope at least
I’ll get to talk to you at a party
like, once, where we’ll mix some more
mythologies

Once Inana birthed the world, and Spider Woman showed her how
I could show you how Saraswati
makes music, and old Bacchus stays on his feet
Care to play my Isis? If that makes me Osiris
then drown me, chop me up. Throw my body
to Mr. Lucifer; the Morrigan will come to inspect your ****
and finding it satisfactory
will whisk you away somewhere better

How’s that last part sound to you, eh?

there’s not much left to waste in the techno age
of “nothing in moderation,” with all our
degradation,
defamation,
discrimination,
and mild inflammation caused by
nonspecific anxiety medications
in our nation of constant false elation,
so
my point is time
the one thing we got left to waste
is time, and I’m a dedicated pacifist, but
I wouldn’t mind killing
some of that, with you

Let’s blow this pop stand
and go hunting.
Sam Temple May 2014
it’s been quite some time
absence creating a fondness
only the heart can understand
blank screen calling
screaming to be invited back
into the fold of daily life
so here I sit
placating the cyber paper –
it’s been too long since last time
and I strain to find reason
for this medium
substance within flowery language
and metaphor
pretending to grasp the vernacular –
it’s getting harder to care
why waste time expressing the same
memories and personal imagery
as everyone else
in a form older than English
eurocentric ethnocentrism –
it’s not even practical anymore as a stress relief
nonspecific pressure to create
seeking likes and hearts as opposed to seeking a release
and freedom
posting poems as a pothead –
it’s going to be alright
this is just another phase or passing fancy
the plight of an artist is to find himself isolated
in self-doubt and unrealized potential
all the while desperately attempting to create something
to make everyone love you
all the while knowing
there is no comfort –
mariano aponte Feb 2016
An introvert, I am not
I am just alone
Unattached from iniquity
Peace is all I seek
Reflections from adversities
I evaluate with a hardened stance
Nonspecific abandonments
I negotiate with my floodlight
In mental conflict with my soul
I split atoms and debate
Intuition overwhelms me
yet I accept all things out of my control
Like Wonder’s vision and spiritual being
I remain passionate while on my throne
Axiana Jun 2013
I am a mythic
Naturally scientific
Representing heiroglyphic
Designs that are intimate

I am inquisitive
Sporadic and innocent
Completely nonspecific
An ancient initiate

I am a linguistic
Student of verbal physics
And a little bit cryptic
With love for the mystic
Moments that are rhythmic
I am
A rustic, heretic poetic misfit
PJ Poesy Dec 2015
My whirligig giggling and jiggling in an ever gyroscopic balancing act of spotting the to and fro, does sometimes wobble recklessly, even falls down.  Revealing, revolving, evolving windy patterns and magnetism that spin pointedly upon an axis of gender nonspecific intention, it gets back up and twirls again. Whirls again, girls again, boys again, toys again, an accelerator from beginning to end, how can I be propellant and then, marry, tie it down? Letting loose these inhibitions of how such a perfect plaything may be too perfect, too divine a contraption is scary whirlwind to put my head around. Yet, this desire to go with it, oscillate and make rounds seems truer than any boxed in version of wooden wouldn't I rathers.  So there it is, to grace a pirouette with stable partner, might be a portion of the dance, picturesque, but more ensemble pieces may follow. These too add to the brilliant ballet, and we are in it together.
To commit to the non-committed?
INFINITEabyss Sep 2016
And I know youll use youre gender nonspecific pronouns,
You think that won't hurt me
Ill tell you say he instead of they... if that's what it is it, it should be what it is. I wont think you any less or more
You can trade in her for him and she for he and its all ok
Its not my  fault, its not your fault
You dont choose who you love
That doesnt change that you loved me... once... in august, in may
May day may day I hear you calling
Dont fret, be free I know you loved me three and I loved you two
Its not my fault and its not your fault
You dont chose who you love
And that doesnt change that you loved me once and you love me still
And my heart still beats
Louder than crickets speak in a still, tranquil, night when you walk in a room. And I see you hold stares longer when they walk in than when I did, ****. My heart beats in anx-iety but its still all love.
Morgan Jan 2015
You want me to let you in?
To call off the guards?
To let down the walls?
You,
So passionately,
want me to
stop fighting

so I will.



I will fall violently,
unadulteratedly
& freely
in love with you.

Just like you want me to.

And you'll lie in my bed all day,
while I try on eight different
dresses for my cousin's wedding

And when you leave,
I'll watch my skin shrink
as I lie
paralyzed
in my bathtub,
day dreaming
about the two small freckles
under the left corner
of your bottom lip

And the first time we argue
& you spend three whole days
angrily ignoring my calls,
I'll chain smoke
until my throat burns

And when you
finally decide
to show up at my door
with a vanilla latte
and apologetic eyes,
I will melt
pathetically
into your collarbones
and all down your spine

And then we will sit
Indian style
across from each other
on my kitchen floor
& you'll tell me in
excruciating
detail all your past lovers'
infidelities and unkindnesses
that led you to fight with me

And that will be it

That will be
the exact moment
when I will know,
without a doubt
that I am
completely & entirely
******

And I will cry into
your neck,
knowing for sure
that from then on
even the most passive,
nonspecific
mention of your name
will make my stomach float up
into my chest
& jolt back down
into my abdomen
like I'm falling
from the highest point
on a roller coaster

And no amount of
poetry,
whiskey,
midnight drives,
nicotine,
house shows
or therapy
will make it stop
or even distract
my soul from it for
a ******* split second

Because
once I allow myself
to love,
I love until I break &
then I keep on loving
until I'm nothing

And I just don't know
if your conscience
is strong enough
to carry the weight
of my shattered heart

So...
tell me Hazel Eyes,
just how bad
you actually want me
to pick up that phone
Western civilization commercialization,
commodification, communication
methodologies adrip with deification,
edification, glorification institutionalizing

libidinal market, the vast majority
modalities relay transmission via
subliminal messages. The not so
innocuous tentacles housing sour advertise
mints objectives conservative

principled paradigm blatantly bind ******* clad,
seductively alluring fashionable
supermodels, albeit highly paid visually
captivating physiques of men and/
or women attaining just barely,

their prime time asper anatomical
fancyfeast. Tis upon that ascending
pedestal, (a mere hop, skip, and
jump along the red carpet royal
treatment), where storied career
launched. Inevitable that risk  

risque monkey business tactics (i.e. questionable
ethical, moral, and parochial
precepts skirted). Nonetheless
marketable cache cows frequently,
indubitably, naturally sally forth into
klieg lights of fame and fortune.

A significant entry vis a vis segue-
way into celebrity stardom invariably
included acquiescence treatment
as sale-able merchandise. A
representative penultimately

pitches packaged person (possibly
pampered pink, perhaps poignant
playbook perused 'pon Peter Piper
picking, pecking pickled peppers)
peddled as analogous to a widget.

The primary difference contrasting
parading an aesthetically pleasing
individual versus a purveyor peddling
an inanimate object includes heavy
emphasis toward repurposing
a person larded amidst salutary,

savory sensuousness, soothingly
sublime sultriness steeped, groomed
and bathed with visually arousing,
beguiling, captivating desirable effects.

Professional (astute, cute, hirsute)
role model people, (whose genetics
and environment allowed them to
husband maximally fated beauty)
must feel very comfortable

in their own skin to display (just shy of
promiscuity) unclothed ******
verboten part. No doubt pheromone
or testosterone pulsates thru
the body electric of viewer. Coy,

flirtatious indirect luring operates
randy unfettered yearning bestirs
desire for immediate *******!
Even this two score plus nineteen

year old, (whose libido went
dormant as a side affect of
pharmaceutical prescription
medication to minimize un
predictable paralyzing panic

attacks predilection) attests at
increased precocity patronizing
my (FAKE) phallus. Many instances
incorporating some athletic,

demure, innocent looking
photogenic subject just waiting
to be the cover of a glossy
glimmering glamorous
magazine (especially an
underage male or female),

the head honcho may be
censored, disallowed, escorted)
away from any picture that hints
of inappropriate physical inter
action. Subtle techniques

and/or poses broadcasting
a delectable, honorable
laudable photograph may
unconsciously connote
spine tingling sensations
approximating statutory ****.

Such prurient intimations defy
being regulated, nor ought
flattering images snapped
by avidly conscientious,
exceptionally gifted, ineffably
kindred shutterbugs banned.

Impulsiveness (particularly,
when the welfare of a minor
OR animal happens to be
at stake) must be addressed
appropriately. If abusive

actions arise perpetrated
against a minor (simply
for anatomical excitation
sans the gender nonspecific
characteristic), the essence

of beauty best be acknowledged
synonymous with any other
physiological endowment.
Depredations highjacking

lost precious quintessential
tenderness wreaks havoc
for the remaining life of
hypothetical individual cascading
like a house of cards, the mental,
physical and spiritual states of being.
Keith W Fletcher Dec 2019
I rang the bell
to no avail
I rang again to which
I was greeted with a total fail
so I knocked
lightly
so to not create a situation
and the door came right open
then started the strangest conversation

he stepped outside to whisper
  you the guy ?
I called this morning?
"I believe I am" I replied
" I ....wel..l.... I.. he whispered "cool!"

" then ...first look this over !"
and without warning
he pushed a piece of paper...
nearly up my nose

"You can deal with all that.....
( he suddenly turned it look in the doors open crack) I suppose? "
still in whispering tones

I  looked at the list- twice -as instructed
my mind did insist
no problem.... no problem... not really a problem and I don't know i found myself whispering "about that one... but it'll  be okay I promise
I know people I smiled
He didn't!

okay if you can take care of all that
without causing me grief
and her to have a fit ...then...

Then man ...
you will be the man ..the man with the plan the man who can ...too bad your name ain't Stan,!"

is this guy three days
into "a crankup in session ..or what?"

I was about to beg off
then I thought
just wait and see
hear him out then reflect
on the whole picture.

I'm here to be of service ..I thought
so why the hell is this guy
so freakin nervous ?

we both heard a squeaking sound
from Beyond the crack in the open door
and just like that
he changed
al  surreptitiousoddity vanished
like smoke up a chimney flue
"  gooddeal  "he said
she's riding her 30 minutes
stationary bike by video...!  you know ?

I smiled sweetly... still wary
"okay I'm sorry "said the guy
let me explain
what it is it's been making me so insane

I took a week off work...like a ****
so I can relax
and deal with some of those things
Ive neglected  
around the house. ..ya know
But  could I? No!
NO!  she said N...O....no!!

Then  she said "you can't.
You don't know the right protocol
and I said what protocol?
Protocol to spackle a wall?
"you know,...he sorta  grimaced...
door **** hole through  sheetrock? "

I nodded and muttered,( still whispering )

IDK Why!

"As common as sparrows" I said
okay then... I'll fix the doorbell  
she said you can't.. No!
You need to find the right protocol .


( hey YOU reader.. I already saw it on the list so ha! )

  then last night I went downstairs
after midnight ...mind you
to Google what the hell she's sayin
Or what it is that I'm missing
found some instructions ...some warnings abusive helpers  trolls full of crap
and that's it.. no protocols do exist
or are , nonexistent or
so nonspecific that...anyways...

and I hate admitting that I sat there
For more than an hour
just turning the knobs in my mind
seeking some mysterious power
To find ....
Trying like hell to ring some bell ...
...and that's when ... I accidentally
accidently ...now!
I nudged that Mouse along the pad
and up popped your ad

then I was mad... bad bad mad..then sad ..but  glad
all that in about a 3 second span
So i sent you that text
to save me
and you will be ...forever be...
...my ever-loving
Pro 2 call
Then he flung  the door wide
in a normal voice he said
come on come come on in
So I stepped past him..ito begin
What i came to do

he shouted out loud
Honey!I found the man you was looking for the man ...the man with the plan ...the man who can
and his name is Stan; he winked at me
and tossed  me a grin

To continued on with
I got me a tee time at 10
and he gave me another grin
did a 180 spin
headed out the door! wow!
Whispering once more
good luck fella  see ya stan....

She opened the door  
said hello to me then said
what was that Stan ?

***  ...what the hell!

I said hello ..uh..He left
but I'm here...to..
To ..ahhh well... to fix the doorbell 
 
She hesitated... confused to which I related then said okay!
Im still 20 miles from Marrakesh
so I'll see you when I get there...okay?

Okay?

She shut the door and the squeaking
began once more.
What a way to start the day and it ain't even 8:30 yet.
Jay M Sep 2019
Birds chirping overhead
Songs echoing in beauty
A different type of speech
Nonspecific, yet still so
An impossible possibility

A black and white photograph
Stirring memories
The dust inhaled
Coughing fit
Just like
That day
Years ago

Every little sight
Sound
Texture
Scent
Taste
Brings it about
And back into the light

Relive the good ol' days
The magic
When you were young
Didn't know much
Or knew too much

That summer
Way back when
Under the tree
On top of the hill
When we were kids
But that was then
But please
Take me back to when
We were kids
Just some good ol' nostalgia

- Jay M
September 3rd, 2019

— The End —