It's not just what I heard
but who I heard it from
I hurt you? You hurt me, too
and brought in depression
Do I really deserve this much aggression?

Tell me that you'll stab me and I'll let you in
for a hug, and if it's the last one,
the one that I give you, then perfect

just perfect

If you want a war,
I'm captain and soldier
whatever the cause it's you and I'll be there
If you want a war
of consciences and guilt
until one of us drops dead
instead of the, "ain't doin this"
I will be the one
to do you in.

Never thought how I feel would reveal me
for how desperately weak I am
despite individual moments
of being the sword to fall
in intense situations.
Growing colder and older,
growing heaviness depletes
the energies I may spend
on myself.

I heard you were in the mood for company.
Could I be
the sword for you, if you'll save me?
The warm for you, if you'll warm me?
I heard you were traveling, companionless.
Could it be
that wandering brought you past
the burrow where I sleep,
for one reason, to complete needs
untended in my home
in equal exchange
In trade
for what may deface the road?

*** for me generally lives in one of two places, either the primal or the spiritual realm.

Primal *** is the *** I share with others because of our mutual, base level attraction, whether it’s in a smile, or a smell, a physical feature, or even something like a mannerism. You compel me, is what we’re saying, and our desire to learn each other is way way up there — though likely naked and on top of each other, wherever it may be.

Spiritual *** is the *** that happens where our entire lives cross and our minds collide and invite each other. What happens when our eyes tie together, dressed or bedded, sharing a look that says, “I know. Exactly.” What happens where words are few or many, and each one custom tailored, in willing wishes to reach specific ears clearly.

What happens under equalizing warm or cold wind in the snow or in the sand.

I wish that I, too, had cute pictures of you from the Summer

but the Summer it was cool to have a camera on ya phone,

I was flying solo, kicking rocks alone, rocks in my pocket broke

That rag dress, that head mess, I swear your hair made you look like a

puppy, I remember because on nights as sweet as this,

rain and wind kissin my fingertips throwing back beer on the balcony

my brain produces the chemical of unrequited love and

I’m transported to you wherever in time, without a vessel

Honeybee, I am the vessel that retains the best of you

in my pulse, and you as you stop believing, I believe in

I don't know if I'm high yet.
I find myself in the kitchen suddenly,
struggling to get the plastic wrap off a bag of popcorn.
Says microwave three minutes,
listening very carefully.
Some bags can finish in 1:30.
That means 2:00 is fine, and
I leave the room.
I think I'm high. I must be.
Let's check the pen.
I got what I've got by using the dabber
to scrape the loose excess from the walls
and rims of the little silver bullet.
Nothing left on the parchment for a while.
A gram doesn't go fast -- it lasts and it lasts
because with the smoke in my lungs
I dance the dance of my ancestors, moving
without speaking and thinking without thought,
gliding between space and time with the ghosts that I've brought,
summoned from ether and cast from the gods,
for me but by me, I am what I've lost.

You know what sounds nicest?
In your bed lying covers half drawn.
Afternoon bath just as I'm waking up.
Your notes upon nightstands and mirrors.

I hope you understand that I'd do
unspeakable deeds and make deals to
realize this vision --

but I'm only human,
you lecher

I'm not the one distributing kisses
I'm not the one love has found you
in paper and ribbon
I'm a companion for us
lonely ones, called suckers
I'm a ******.

Tonight, I feel lucky like I got Lamia at my side
Twilight will see justice and wrath meet
From virulence who could truly hide?
Tonight I ride in under the rain,
like under thin skin pushing blade
Anguish within replete in collecting like a memory
In time fully bleeding and reaping
A time limit on sun and moonlight
Tonight I ride in delivery
of thousands
hurting
for pain in payment

My mother was not right since the longest I recall
with the sickness to which you bound her, enthralled
For the daughters and the sons and for guardians who once
enjoyed their unity, who well beside themselves with grief
won't ever pray for harm

Tonight I ride lucky, Lamia,
as I collide

Here's where the line goes
for the show, maybe
Although I'm fairly sure it is
and I know that I'm first
Here's where the worlds collide
and the lies in their songs unfold
Forest of feast and tactility
Do I love you and need you?
Well, false to both, though
I admit you're my favorite

A veil of secrets
keeping you bleak and
numb, vacuous, and dumb
Are you in deep with the rhythm or open and bald
of your original skin and placement?
A different life, or would you say paradigm?

Cold infiltrates my inhalation
with menthol cigarette smoke rushing as
boldly dressed parents do just the same
in their final week's preparation to shine

Where are you?
Where are you this Winter?
I'm lonely. Not alone
Where are you?
Have you never slept with someone who
made you want for another?
I'm in this world I've built
while you do whatever you do.

Lonesome in the moonlight
thinking only of your kisses
missing the levity, missing the pivotal moment
where I open eyes to two who stare in mine
and return to Earth as ash as we both burn up
as we turn to stars mimicking, a little bit,
the husks of human flesh we were
And I'm surrounded, and I drown in
the affectations of a denomination out of touch or too in tune
Pull me ever down
Under the riptide
To be so suffocated
Between the dead--
not deities.

Love them well endowed honeys and this
ain't about just the rounded mounds of the chest
or the way that her thighs fold into her ****
but the love, present in her touch and her mug
as she smiles while maybe hiding behind violently
built walls that rise with spikes to ward off her demons
she brings to the Earth through her grace in the face of madness
a slight slice of the gladness that I can't see in most
to be alive, she sings even if silently for growth and respite
and when she moves along the sidewalk her body is robust
a presence of happiness in the gray womb of this tomb of a city she saves
Does she look like a fool to you for walking
determined and turned on despite the burden on her shoulders that's placed
there with its infinite weight by the masses
not tuned to the channel of faith and the rapture
of the world that she holds boldly in her,
they say that the images she captures offends
and if she wants to fit in, she'll have to give in
and be the frequency all see in the set top glass now plastic
wrapped up faces in glasses demanding she
prance like in the mirror for the sanctity of their ethics
But she flows and she knows her energies better than
these TV profits believe they believe or really ever can,
well endowed, respectful and proud of the strengths in her very nature
and if she knows not then she will, and if she gives in
she'll be half drowned and likely rise for the ****
She is a meat and emotion, a piece of history and more in the making
and I love her. All of her.

Wind's comin in you crazy few wanderers
who
still wander in this madness we're still calling earth
can't you see, can't you see what's all around you?
Look! The walls. The walls are closin in, friend.
You're walking in circles while the world surrounds you,
is what you're doin. But, and I'm sorry for screaming,
you're free to go. By all means, pass this place.
Keep going, and go into the town, look around
and pass the time. It's a fine place for it.
You should know. When you leave, this
place for the next, for the next, for the next,
you'll find me. And all I do is sit. While I wait.
Why walk, when you can fly?

I think sometimes, about what it means to be transgender. I probe and probe for answers, because as the possibility for a new age of enlightenment and safety increases, the others want to know. I’ve come up with many answers, but I can hold to none. I don’t deserve to paint the definition of a culture with the limited experiences I’ve had. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people allowed on television. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people making news feeds and giving high profile interviews. And as my nation’s exposure to our culture increases, likely will their curiosity. Am I transgender? Do I have the right? I’ve heard doctors, psychiatrists, may refuse transgender patients access to hormone therapy based on how dedicated or convincing their portrayal of their identified gender. If you want to be a man or woman, you’ll have to look like the women and men on TV. If you want to be transgender, you’ll have to look like the trans identified people on TV. Every single one of us who has an active role as either participant or observer in our society is prey to the crisis of validity. Am I pretty enough? Am I strong enough? Am I brave enough? Mom enough? Dad enough? Competitive enough? Successful enough? Rich enough? **** enough? Pious enough? It never ends. We’re, as a nation of people, being crushed and compartmentalized by this ever present lens, looming over us, exploiting our weaknesses and fears so it may grow wider, and support itself as it follows us, seemingly forever into the future. And one of the worst fears this camera of existential torment exploits, in most of us every day, is, “Do I have a reflection?” “What does it look like?” “Do I look like me?” What does it mean to be transgender? I can’t get away from that question. But I don’t have an answer. There are varying degrees of anguish, depression, panic, anxiety, and other wonderful emotional states that creep up on you and breathe down your neck nearly every waking day. Absolute contempt for the lie of a life you’ve lived till now, and contempt for the fragments still stuck to you, in memories, attached to your body and mind. Fear of those in your own community who would purposefully humiliate, invalidate, or attack you, choosing their own universal moral code over the innate urge and capacity to support the health and continued well being of another human. A ******* neighbor. A ******* pupil. A ******* employee. A ******* sister, brother, son, daughter, mother, father, cousin, ******* blood. What is being transgender like? By my experiences, it’s just like being anyone else in the country. But with a lot more fear, death, exclusion and medication.

I'm more than what you make of me.
For instance, you see flesh, when I'm stars.
You see stretch marks, I see scars that
explain well the path I've been on
With kindness, I'm blessed, even messed
up in the head, I am words that announce
my presence silent or out loud,
and I'm not at fault when you can't feel it and
listen. I'm queer, I'm proud, you write ******
on my face while you're looking down
on me but I've only got smiles when I look up.
You, are ******, beyond me, beyond belief,
so maybe this is my peace.

I was born a bitter man squalling from the womb
with happiness discovered spryly I assumed
from wonders
beholding innate anguish
the urge aims to **** us with
what we cannot evade
from under
neath despair's sweet, sweet blanket
I ovulate

Update:

Turns out she didn't like it. And that's fine.
I write for myself.
Though on occasion it would be nice to receive with excitement reflective of the deliverer.

Amen.

Will you whimper while you wait,
for me to save you?
Or will you make me?
You gotta' make me.

In my dreams I see the world I could have been
living in had I not been myself and I hate to
have to inform you but I do believe that this
body may be no more than a shell, inevitably
for our big potential nothing more than a cell,
not that it is, but if, then from within your jail

Will you whimper while you wait,
for me to save you?
Or will you make me?
You gotta' make me.