Angel Land Municipal Airport

At Angel Land Municipal Airport
the lovers come and go.
Some die.
Some die in our hearts.
The sexually immature ones
leave
and take the train and
their train wrecks
back to their competitive
partriachal pursuits.
Boring sex continues chasing
its tail through the sky.
Where is your angel again?
No, where has she gone?
Sex is a marketplace of desire.
Got it.

The white women cash in
on their privilege.
Oh mommy and daddy.
Wrong, they never cash in.
They protect their interests.
They struggle with generosity
at these crossroads,
rather runways, of mortality.
They struggle, so they leave
Angel Land
in the middle of the night,
a red eye flight,
before those who know them
and those who see them
can actually see them.
This airport is tricky,
wedged between earth and heaven.

Now, where is your angel again?

Half As A Person

Half a person, I live to be.

Never a daughter. Not a wife.
Not a land owner.
Not a mother.

Once a son.

Then
I turned away as a father.

I can’t stop what the sun sees

half in the mirror,
always half is the mirror.

The other side, holy side,
effervescence, the spirits.

Whole to my cat,
the little sprittlemites.

Born to be shamanic… supersonic.

Two parts are those oak trees,
pollinator and pollinated.

But me,
in the land of people and cities
and big box stores
selling merchandise from China;

I live as half a person.
Vanished and thriving.
Voiceless, unseen,
but I guess I get to be pretty,
sometimes,
depending on the beholder.

Inquiries About My Genitals

On the day
we signed the contract
on a house that we’re hoping
to live in for the next 20 years
and raise her girls together,
she started by asking if
I was still open to, still considering
getting a vagina.

She said it was confusing to hear
me recently say that
I’m starting to be secure with
being a woman and having a penis
,
my belief
that I can be a woman and
still have a penis.
She nodded in agreement,
then furled her brow, but…
but there was something else.
True, yes, she said.
But it is incongruent to see me
as a woman, for me to be a woman now
,
which she assured me
she experiences me as,
and then for me to have a penis.
Those are not two things that
normally go together
… her words.
She continued, having something
inside her she needed to share.
She bumbled awkwardly with her
words at first.
Something she was uncomfortable
or a little embarrassed to share.
So I softly cajoled her to get it out.
Finally, she shared:
There’s no other way to put it
that doesn’t sound crass,
I want vagina.
I want to experience pussy
.
She breathed heavy and dreamily,
sighing.
So yeah, maybe that’s yours
when or if you have one.
I’d like to experience that.
Or, or, or.
Maybe, maybe
it’s another woman
.
She stopped, paused,
trying to find her words.
I mean, we’ve talked about
non-monogamy, but never ended
up there.
Yeah, maybe that’s something I’d
like to experience
.

I confirmed with her I understood.
That I really like pussy.
That no, in fact, I love pussy.
That it’s wonderful.
I get it.

Then I stood there thinking in my
mind;
why did she bring this up at the
end of the day on a day when we
made a big commitment to
each other,
why then?
I don’t know.
Was it because of
our big commitment now
she was more comfortable
being honest with me?
And maybe she wouldn’t
understand this,
but my mind wondered
back to a couple days ago,
and I was thinking about how
these two douchebag guys
in a bar
invited me over to their table
to flirt with me and then
cut to the chase
and asked me about my genitals
and my plans for getting
a vagina.

I guess these inquiries
about my genitals are happening
now
because I’m finally
starting to look like a woman
and maybe me having a penis
doesn’t add up to folks.

Yeah, it’s good to know;
I’m finally a woman.
I’ve finally arrived.
Welcome to the world, girl.

Lesbian Kiss In Capitalism

God, your lips.
Wait, not that “god”.

Just your lips.

In lesbian love
with each other,
ripped that masculinity
from the Aegean
in ancient times,
they did
on some days, in some regions.

Then why not now?

Why can’t the air be ours?

Or why not the fruit trees by the
weathered windows from Naples?

Why is winter always judged?

Your lips do this thing to me
when the hearth fire burns,
endless rains fall from the sky,
and my bones feel cold, mineral,
and hollow.

Your lips; slain, succulent and laid out
in my mind across everyday for
the rest of living,
similar to sunrises
in so many collected mortal eons.
They uplift a TV repair shop
in Oregon,
upholding what must be heaven.

They turn from smooth beige
and melt into translucent metal.
Do they?
They do.
They melt my flower.

Just A Texas Girl

Well, she tried moving to New York

and she tried moving out to L.A.

but along the way she found
something else she had to say

and that’s that she’s just a Texas girl

. . . just a Texas girl.

Although she was born a little boy

in her travels and her pain

she found the greatest truth in the world

and that’s that she’s just a Texas girl

just a Texas girl
just a Texas girl

just . . . a . . . Texas . . . girl.