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.

Anything A Man Could Do For A Woman

After he was done
he stood over me
growling and said
I was a good slut.
I was mostly naked
with my panties yanked
down around my ankles
and my negligée half off.
I felt barren and exposed
and wanted to cry.
I knew this wasn’t what
I wanted.
I felt a foreign and shameful
inauthenticity growing inside me.
It hit me full force in the stillness
after he left.
I’ve got to now,
He said moments after finishing
and lefty briskly without
exchanging any niceties.
Then
I cried and sobbed in the emptiness
of a Chicago apartment
built for a four or five person family.
The ice and snow outside
melted, merged, and ashened
from all the cars going by.
I believed I needed
a man’s masculinity
to affirm my femininity.
That is not true.
The most noble masculinity
I’ve ever experienced
originated from within
the curves of a woman.
And I find that more affirming
of my femininity and all femininity
than any man or
anything a man could do
for a woman.

I consider masculinity to be
the efficient ability to compartmentalize or
contain emotions,
while femininity
is the ability to swim
within an ocean of emotions.
I swim with women now.

Maybe We’ll Kiss

Maybe we’ll kiss again
when the waves come back in
and the eyes and hands
that naturally stray
decide to stay.
Decide upon
some summer evening,
I guess this is okay.
I guess this is exceptional.
Exceptionally unnoticed
of the times that are exceptional,
breaths of angels
and silken skin
betwixt anger and frustration.
Exceptionally unnoticed,
fallen breaths in Southern humidity,
hidden things on Southern winds
and Southern birds.
Hidden breaths.
Hidden portals.
Hidden lands.
Doors to lots of other places
other than Angel Land.

Exceptionally unnoticed
those Earthlings walking
to and fro and talking to
the souls and the band of souls.
Hold onto or let go of the one
hand in the cosmos
whom you know as spirit and
mortal.
Dimensions crossed, dimensions
crossed once and singularly
in this sacred configuration.
Though eyes and hands,
they naturally stray.
Love is cheap to dying ones.
But shouldn’t it be the opposite?
Maybe we’ll kiss again,
I shrug and turn to vapor.

Watching The Port In Angel Land

I’ve seen the young girls
these days.
She will go far and wide,
as the old saying goes.
She has lovely hips.
I wish I had them,
but oh well,
shit is what it is.
We all go on our sailings.
Some stay in port.
I still really love her,
watching her sip her
Mexican soda with a straw
through her lipgloss lips.
I wonder about her journeys
ahead.

Gen Z Lezbos Let’s Go

The young ladies
who took my order
at the taco shop
had a good laugh
after they complimented
my pretty nails
and I shared with them
that I’m gonna get
my pretty nails
removed soon
for the sake of my girlfriend.

They then both
showed me their pretty nails
and said
they’re in between girlfriends
right now.
Wink, wink.
And I said
“Apparently we cannot
be trusted to be gentle”.
They burst out laughing.

I like connecting
with the young lesbians of today.
They’re much more accepting
of me
as a woman and a lesbian
than many of the
maintain perfect appearances
millennial lesbians
or the bigoted
baby boomer lesbians.

Angel Land to LBD

They call it lesbian bed death,
that is what I’m living,
from the highest highs of Angel Land
to the lows of being left alone and neglected.
I don’t have all those “real” woman parts
so it makes sense that
no “real” woman who’s a lover of “real” women
would want to touch me and my odd parts.

I know there’s one woman out there
who is an authentic sapphic
who wasn’t molested or abused by a man,
or who is not grossed out by the male parts
or who doesn’t only lust singularly for woman parts
… who will love me as a woman,
and adore and cherish me for my femme self,
tend to me like the flowers of Spring.

I know there’s one woman out there

… maybe one.

To get to Angel Land from LBD
you turn left in the shadows of the summer night
and lay waiting in the stillness of darkness,
alone with a partner in bed,
bearing fecund hope in your firm, perky
hormonal breasts,
sometimes with tears pooled softly in your eyes
as your breathe lost into sleep.

As A Woman #2

As a woman
I’m learning
to apologize
over every little thing
and notice how other women
apologize for inane things too…
like sorry for turning the light on too quickly
sorry for cooking too much food,
sorry for placing ketchup on the wrong area
of the plate for a kid,
sorry for having a rough day.
Sorry, sorry, sorry,
I’ll try again, I promise. Tomorrow.
I apologize.

Thankfully though,
as a woman
I’m also learning
that it is absolute bullshit
for us to be apologizing all the time
over passengerless, stupid shit.

Love As A First Time Lesbian

Sometimes there’s love.
Sometimes it goes away.
Sometimes I’m waiting again.
Sometimes I try another day.

Sometimes I return.
Sometimes I stay.
Sometimes the sex
makes my mind a spiritual kind of place.

Sometimes there’s madness.
Sometimes it’s divine.
Sometimes there’s hurt.
Sometimes it’s just fine.

Sometimes I lose my faith.
Sometimes I have to pray.
Though always I know I’m gay.
And always I can’t let go,
as weak or strong that is
to admit to say.

Yeah, this love is weak and strong.
There’s no veneer.
No going through the motions.
Yes, there’s weak.
And there’s also strong.
Right here all along.
This ain’t no hetero kind of nonsense,
trying to keep up appearances for
society or family.

This love is weak and strong.
Grab my wrists babe, lead me on.

[For National Poetry Month, why not celebrate, shine light on, and be real about Sapphic love? 🤷🏻‍♀️]