How, O Lord, do they not see the arrogance of their ways?
Have decades of abuse for the poor and the helpless hardened their heart?
Did they learn their wicked ways from those who came before?

How long, O Lord, will they walk upright as their iniquity casts a shadow to Sheol?
Will today be the day they are cleared from the sight of the righteous,
With all the kindness that was shown to those they dared not to see in this life?

One day, I pray, responds the Lord:

Thank you for your application to The Many Mansions.
We regret to inform you, but the documentation provided 
Does not meet the preference the Lord has adopted
For the poor, the hungry, the reviled and the excluded.
Blessed are they, for the Kingdom of God is theirs.
You have received your consolation already.

Woe to the full and the rich.
You will receive in this life or the next that which you portioned out,
And be brought to full understanding of the wickedness you have done.
Hung out to dry in the shade of a palm cross on the urban heat island
You and your predecessors have made.

Hey dog,
it’s you, me
and the goslings
against the forces of reaction
and ecological destruction,
and I don't know about you, 
but we intend to win.

Part 1: Gratitude 

For those who came before.
For those who called this home first and still do.

For the Pacific Pocket Mice,
And that the rumors of their extinction
Had been greatly exaggerated, and their burrows saved.
Long may they scurry under fragrant sagebrush
And bright yellow bush sunflower.

For the “GI turned blond bombshell”
Who called Laguna Beach her home,
And drew her last breath in San Clemente Hospital.
May those who knew her,
And those who follow in her footsteps find peace.

For those in whom I found solace,
Knew them before I knew myself.
May they be paid forward in kindness.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it.”

Part 2: Mourning 


There are precious few heroes on Nextdoor.
There are many who cheer and sneer as they take away their neighbors.
Eager to explain why they didn’t really count.

There are precious few heroes on San Clemente Life.
Tell me again how you want to move the people in those encampments,
To camps in the desert.

We just want to keep our neighborhood safe.

I mourn the neighbor you could have been,
And the neighbor that you still could be.

“This was the iniquity of thy sister Sodom, pride, fullness of bread, and abundance of idleness was in her and in her daughters, neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy.”

(To be continued)

Eros the incredibly inconvenient,
Eros the sweet and bitter,
Not in subsequent moments
but all in one.

The dreamer rides
against the woman of action
in me, in the quiet moments and as the evidence
of my unfortunate affection
leaves a physical imprint on this world.

I always had trouble mixing my storges and philias
in with my eros. 
There are some lines that we are told not to cross.
And ultimately, what’s more appealing than 
to take a bite of that forbidden fruit?
Feel the juice drip down and stain your shirt.

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.