Category: citizen trans* {project}
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people will always want me dead that’s why I get myself the good coffee dark rich people will always want me dead that’s why I keep my humanity in notebooks my tarot reshuffled telling me where I’m going next (outside to smoke) people will always want me dead that’s why I give myself the good…
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I can’t quit my chained maidenWho pliés around the welkinFrom stone to stone, and craterTo crater, hypergolic. She spinsAnd laughs, I swell with love. I callHer a reminicantagonist, a futurephiliacBut as she always does, she floatsAhead. Skipping, stone to stone,Alpheratz towards Canis and his son.She knows what will come next,She’s lived it before. This is…
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Yesterday I drove my son back homewithout crying, long past tears, knowingsoon I’ll leave, no more weekend sharedcustody, in attempt to flee draconian lawsdevised to erase and replace me with masksI wore but never wanted. He doesn’t knowwhy I jump at every knock shatteringsilence, but my edginess seeps into himand he knows it’s not right.…
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Trans lives matter despite what they say going back into the closet can’t be the only way I loathe darkness now that I know light my friends huddle in fear my family mark their calendars a man anointed to serve my country nazi salutes a want to be dictator a friend said that might end…
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I’ve seen you singing in the floor of the train car. The screeching of the tracks, background singers. Nobody else knows it’s the rest of the sky down there. I try and count the stars but people keep treading over them. A light dusting, it seems to accompany every galaxy. But it wasn’t the dirt…
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And we were popular for a little while. As muses. As specimens. As celluloid and dreams. Maybe Warhola saw a little of himself in us, with his dumb blonde twink toupe and his ancestors from one of the bad parts of Eastern Europe that no one wants to remember. The same forgotten language, по-нашому, in…
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“It could have been a lot of stuff but it just wasn’t us / The very thought of how you operate, I’m filled up with disgust / I live and die for the cause, nail me to the cross / Take your pity off, maybe listen up (Let go)” –Bladee, “UNDERSTATEMENT” (SPIDERR) Existing as…
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i don’t write my poems to be political but my body inherits policy when my brain boils over onto superheated sidewalk, or my skin sloughs off into knee-deep seawater, we all know who to blame i remade myself in 2017 chalk-scrawling my new name on the concrete thinking it might be enough and when i…
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in early evening black through which my pre-sleep spliff smoke sexually confuses adolescent lightningflies, as those restless poets ascend from the basement for mealtime, i: wonder what wasps do at night, wonder how long’s it gonna take two ants to scrap this bumblebee’s broken body for parts, i: …
