Paradise Regained

I sat beside an empty pool.
The walls were cracked and stained with age.
I dangled on the dry first step
And stared at leaves and cans collected at the drain.

Youthful splashing laughter now an ill-remembered dream.
Numb photos in a rotting peeling book.
Fly-spotted like my arm.
There would be nothing more.

But then I saw another pair of feet had joined mine at the step.
A tender hand then touched my wizened knee.
A simple smile in smooth and youthful cheeks
Was blurred by chlorine-scented tears.

Her honeyed karaoke song, her subtle eye of Ra,
her drenched relief of lost love's grief, pulled me from my flaw.
I'll now be singing symphonies with violin and horn.
At her behest, I will be blessed, and I will be reborn.

Fabulous Beasts

I've recently caught up with a lovely lady that I went to high school with.  We've been sending emails back and forth for a while now.  She recently informed me that I'm her only transgender friend.

I get that a lot.

When I'm on stage, I realize that I'm the first transsexual that most of the audience have ever seen in real life.  There aren't a lot of us out there...certainly not enough to go around.   It's quite a responsibility and I take my role seriously.  I sometimes tell my audiences that now that they can see I'm not to be feared, they can join in the fun.  They can now hang out at their water coolers or lunch rooms (or whatever the hell you breeders do during the day)  and they can say, "Oh yeah. I'm cool. I'm with it.  I even know a real transsexual...or trans-person.  That's what we hipsters call them."  Or you can punk your friends now by saying, "You see that chick over there?  You think she's hot?   Ha!  She's really a dude.  Yer a faggot!"

But be aware...although we are fabulous beasts, we have no pot of gold and swimming in our blood does not make you invulnerable.  The most we could do for you is possibly validate your parking. 

On being a monster

I got into an argument a while back with a guy that was convinced that no one could be both gay and trans, essentially arguing that I was either lying or that I simply didn't exist.  I tried to reason with him but he just kept getting angrier and angrier until finally he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Well at least I know what I am when I wake up in the morning.”

I replied calmly, “you do know that asshole is not a sex, right?”

That was a misstep because that’s when he brought out the “M” word.  When you're transgender, you have to deal with most people considering you to be a “monster.”  

They might not say it out loud, but you can tell they’re thinking it.  Whenever I meet someone, they are usually very pleasant and smile broadly.  If the topic comes up that I’m transgender, however, that’s when I get …the look.   Every transgender knows this look very well.  It’s the “I’m going to continue to smile but I am so freaked out right now that I should very much like to run away” look.  I must confess to a bit of schadenfreude in that I will sometimes deliberately bring up the subject just to get that look.  It’s a sad form of entertainment, to be sure, but sometimes you take it where you can. 

I can’t really blame cis-folk for being afraid of us.  About the only representation of us in the media is movies like “Silence of the Lambs.”   But let me assure you right now …I am NOT sewing a woman skin suit in my basement …any more.  (My fault really.  I like TOTALLY ran out of lotion for it to put on its skin.)

There was a time when I very much disliked being called a monster.  It used to bother me a lot.  I didn't dislike the word because it's demeaning (which it is) or because it's an attempt to make us less than human (which it is.)  I disliked being referred to as a monster because...well, I didn't get any cool monster powers with this crap.  I can't blast anyone with my eyes.  I don't turn into Benicio del Toro when the moon is full.  And I’ve never sucked anyone’s…blood.

But sometimes it gets to you.  You can be called a monster just so many times before you start to think, "well maybe they're right. Maybe I am a monster."  It happens to me too.  Sometimes when I run in the morning, I don't even get out on the road before the testosterone demons come out.  They swarm around me like flies and torment me with “You think you’re a woman?  No.  You’re a monster.  You’re a hideous freak of nature…and your shoes are untied.”  If I look down for even an instant, they're all like,  “Ah.  I made you look.”  

Sometimes it gets so bad that I wind up running down the street waving them off and shouting, “leave me alone!  Leave me alone!”   I’m sure that if anyone actually ever saw me doing that, they would say, “Oh, it’s so nice to see the crazy homeless people getting out and exercising.” 

But they don't know.  They don't realize that I'm just trying to get rid of the demons in my head...which I guess technically DOES mean that I crazy homeless person....but I don't care.  I just want to get away. But you can't get away from them, 'cause they hunt you down until they get you cornered in a foggy alleyway somewhere and you turn into John Hurt and cry out, "I am not an an-i-mal.  I am a human being."

But then…in the depths of my despair, I'll hear a little voice saying, "everything is all right.  Everything is all right.  All these tormentors?  They're just part of you. They are your mistakes and faults and every bad decision you've ever made.   But those things ...define you.  If any one of those things had been different, you would not be you.  They only seem like demons because you’re trying to distance yourself from them.  The harder you push them away, the more demonic they become.  Stop pushing.  Bring them back to you.  Become one with your dark side.”

So I do that.  I get up out of my little hole...which is actually a relief since it's really hard to keep those things clean...and I gather all my personal demons back into me.  I literally pull them back and say, “We are one.  We are one.”  But when I do that, I don't just feel at peace.  I feel ...powerful.

Being a monster is a powerful thing.  People are afraid of monsters because they see that power and it scares the b'jeesus out of them.  Think about every movie you've ever seen with a creature and angry villagers chasing the creature with pitch forks and torches.  The monster is the only interesting person.  The villagers are boring.  They have boring jobs.  They live in boring houses.  They go to boring churches.  They are so afraid of anyone who dares steps outside “normal” and wants to move forward that they actually demonize the very word “progressive.”  Anytime I hear someone talk about "those damned progressives" you can be pretty sure I'm dealing with an angry villager. 

Throughout history it has only been the monsters that have advanced civilization.   Socrates, Galileo, Darwin….all of them were completely reviled and considered monsters in their time.  But it was these monsters that advanced civilization.  Without them, we'd all just be banging rocks together. 

By accepting my role as an outcast, I accept the responsibility to move the world forward.  By reclaiming the word "monster," I reclaim my power.   So, in the end… am I a monster?  You bet your ass I am.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Facebook Sonnet

I whisper to the swirling shouting nights

When none can hear but rushing barking cars

And none can see but buzzing warehouse lights

That, empty, miss the soundly sleeping bars.

I whisper of my faded sea-salt smiles

That none but me gives thought to like or share.

Just hasten to ignore forgotten files.

Make room for grumpy cats and calls for prayer.

The tiny floating iridescent dreams

That started from a thoughtless given kiss

Are lost amid the daily squeeing memes

My words are gnat-like fluff that none will miss.

I whisper still but know that no one hears.

My life is useless pain that no one fears.

Sonnet on a frigid Glendale Night

A hope as soft on softness intertwine

That joy take hold and love itself be cached
Like coiled tendrils binding summer vine.
In one bare moment gone. All longing dashed.

No joyous sounds of lips in quiet love.

No silent nods of passion undeclared.

Just plays and disappointed thoughts thereof
and echoes of a sloppy berry shared.

Should I have never let my shivers show

When she did tuck her shawl about my neck?

Was I a fool for saying, “please don’t go,”

To one my eyes could barely keep in check?

The silence of my room is old and small.

I slip in bed alone and make a ball.