Is it the fault of God or I that I,
Have risen to this cliff so high and dry,
And will upon the edge of pleasure always lie,
Waiting for one coming through the rye?

Gloved hands tear up a ciabatta roll,
And envious eyes think of their hole.

And did those chunky heels tread through my door And find soft carpeted purchase on my floor,
Their owner riding on my face forlorn,
Sweet tongue of mine now adorned?

Upon bedsheets made with care, cover up
My secret shames and all my pastures bare.
Cry panic and let slip the nip of war
Before the tour of all you haven't seen before.

In what cruel alchemist's lab,
Or gatekeeping clinician's office,
Were the procedure and diagnosis codes,
That construe the modern medical transexual created?

On what day we were created,
And of what clay firmed?
Chip the edges off this brick 
To a monument to an unknown God.

You know enough five-point calvinist guys,
And woo woo women into the universe,
To know too well the comfort fate provides,
And the sucking wound of free verse.

Baker’s sugar sweet onto that wound,
To know there was no other way.
Each eager branch deftly pruned,
By strong enough hand yesterday.

Does it make the bough fall softer
And does it make it go to mulch
Any faster and bring to prosper
Whatever fungus lays in this gulch?

Etch your past in marble, as much as you can fit in.
And what you have written, you have written.

It's the sack of Rome,
It's original sin,
It's a house not a home,
And it hurts goin' in .

They're at the gate,
And you're in the walls
You know your fate,
As you have your balls.

It's a chicken without feathers,
And a life without tethers.
It's the bent leg variation,
And the swan song of deprivation.

Aidos is shame that tells us that,
Two are not one, and in that boundary 
We find out what two can do to one another.
It also reminds me that I am not who I want to be. The erotic sameness of sapphic love
Falls apart when the rubber hits the road
And the camera pans down.
I know all there is to know
about the crying game.

Despite what you've been told
This story does not end in your catharsis.
There are no simple lessons,
And having heroes will kill you.
But God do we need them.
When the flood waters retreat,
And only silt loam remains,
I'll tell you a secret.
You're kind.
It's in your nature.

The world laughs in peacock green 
And shines in mother of pearl
As it passes you by.
One best way slips through your fingers
like sand by the lagoon you remember well.
But oh my child why
melt away your life in the mourning?

Please see aforementioned tears.

There's something nearly all
Cis women I know have.
It's not a vagina.
It's a couple of other women
From high school or college 
That they either see or call
On the phone every so often
And talk about their feelings.

I do not have this. 
I do have at least a couple of “the boys”
Who survived it all
And remained interested 
In being associated with me.

No matter how many kind 
And perceptive, amazing women
Let me in to their world 
In a million little ways
I will not have this.

I feel like a rough thread 
Ripped out of the social fabric of manhood
And trying to weave into the delicate latticework 
Of womanhood too late.
And I know, listener, that I am softer than I know,
That I am dyed in purple 
More precious than that sent for from Phoenicia,
And this is true.
But let me tear my business casual blouse and lament, 
OIMOI TALAINA
Untranslatable scream, bones of sound.

Like the desert willow
 Isn’t a real willow
And as mountain mahogany
Isn’t mahogany, so

I don’t feel like I am
A real woman or
A real damn beauty either
Some days in this old war

Iambs and chromosomes
Melt away in daylight 
When does a shrub become a tree?
It turns out no one knows.

Don't let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Let them call things they don't like gay
So no one will spread that rumor any more
Or ask why they shaved their legs today

Don't let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Let them tell their girlfriend from bible study
What they do sometimes alone at home
And see how things get muddy

Don't let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Let them live with their straight ex-wife 
And their three kids surprised about dad
Let them cry in the bathroom about family life

Please let your boys grow up to be cowgirls
Teach them to pick mountain mint
And wear ten-gallon hats 
Let them ride sidesaddle into the sunset

Driving past the light
Of hearth and home
You think of hopes
Hung on trees
Long since dead.

You fought in many
Biweekly garland wars
And hoped most days
They'd subside 
That the sacrifice 
Made the flowers grow
And they did
 Smell so sweet
And you learned about peace.

Farther still in the distance
You recall the last best hope 
Of your past life
She held your secret.
You held onto her 
Like a crucifix.
And some say
 She set you free.

You see now dead trees.
They grow mushrooms
House birds
And feed many things
You see now fertile ground
And a broken branch in the mire
Preserved forevermore.

Sitting by the dry creek bed,
When the wind gathers the willow seeds,
And scatters the blessed fluff,
Am I made of stronger stuff?

I smell the iron some mornings,
As a drop rolls down my chin.
Is it smooth enough?
And am I made of stronger stuff?

The oak cracks and creaks,
And the shell shatters underfoot.
I wonder these long weeks,
Am I made of stronger stuff?

The mussel makes the pearl
And would it shine the same,
Buried in another lake or stream?
I sleep assured of dreams.

“And thus the legend runs- I Justice am,
And I will bring the hero home again, 
To hold once more her place in this town”