Like Helicopter Wings Ready to Soar

I lived for many years

with my proverbial hands

at my sides --

prim and proper,

contained and acceptable,

limited and stifled. 

 

Now I raise my arms

parallel with the horizon --

like helicopter wings ready to soar --

no longer contained

to someone else's

idea of who I should be

or what is acceptable,

expressing my full self,

embodying

strength and

compassion and 

justice and 

peace and

kindness and 

confidence and 

PRIDE. 

 

Now I am at home

in my body -- just like

I used to be as a 

small, queer kid

in the middle of nowhere Indiana

before the world got its claws

on me.

Two Faced

A man doesn't obsess

over his face.

It is what it is.

He doesn't even give it

a second thought.

He was born with that face,

was raised with that face,

and grew up with that face.

He went through grade school,

middle school, high school,

and college with that face.

He dated with that face,

started a career with that face,

and formed a family with that face.

Everyone who's ever met him

knows him by that face.

He never reached an age when he was

asked, encouraged, or expected to begin

covering up

his natural, "God-given" face with

moisturizer,

concealer,

base,

powder,

blush,

eyeliner,

mascara,

eyebrow pencil,

three shades of eye shadow,

lip liner,

lipstick,

and lip gloss

every

single

day.

He never hides his true face.

He doesn't spend hours each week

covering his face early in the morning

and uncovering it late at night.

He doesn't spend years

distrusting his real face,

building a life, a career,

a family, a self,

based on a lie, a fake, a coverup.

He doesn't spend a moment

wondering if his actual face

is acceptable

without a full-fledged makeover.

He didn't learn how to

abandon his true face,

distrust his bare, naked face,

disconnect from his real self,

or disassociate from his true face

in order to create a completely

different visage

to present to the world.

He trusts his face

and relies on his face

without even knowing it

or thinking about it.

He just moves through the world

as his self,

with his true, natural, real, actual face,

without fear or worry.

He does this without even a thought.

Meanwhile, a woman

is expected to do the exact opposite --

to model to the entire world

that her true, natural, real, actual,

"God-given" face is unacceptable

and should only be

seen in public

when it is 100% altered --

to become

quite literally

two faced.

Schooled by a Sock

Don't Judge a Look 'til You Hover

I was just schooled by a
black sweat sock
lying in the middle of the road.
I was 100 percent certain it was a
tied-up doggie doo bag
until I was right up on it.

(I know how to be)

I know how to be
what everyone else thinks I should be.
Now I must learn how to be me.

Sugar Free, Calorie Free, Substance Free

Trying to have a conversation
about diversity of thought
with an absolutist
is like
attempting to brainstorm
about throwing a beautiful dinner party --
appetizers, soups, salads, entrees, drinks and desserts --
with someone who is
solely interested
in serving Diet Coke all night.

Making Up My Mind

When I don't wear makeup,
I feel like I'm disappointing
my family, community and society
because I look "prettier"
with makeup.
I feel like I'm not
"living up to my full potential"
or representing my family,
my community
or matriarchy "well."

But I do not exist
to achieve people's approval.
I exist because
I have a life to live --
one life, one shot,
mine.

I do not owe the world
"beauty."
I do not owe society
"pretty."
I do not exist to make
everyone else feel comfortable,
contented, or complimented.

Still, giving myself permission to
not look "my best" is
challenging for a perfectionist.

News flash to self:
I do not owe the world
"perfect."

Perhaps somehow, somewhere
in the recesses of my psyche,
I believe that I am more
valuable, more lovable, more
acceptable
if I am as "pretty"
or as "perfect"
as I can be.

Perhaps I have been
poisoned by the patriarchal preconception
(and the people who have practiced and propagated it)
that women are worthy of
acceptance, admiration, appreciation, approval, and affection
only when they are "pleasing" to the eye.

Sunflowers and Birch Trees (Let It Be)

Just as there is
a myriad of
flower varieties
on the earth and
a host of tree species
in the world,
there are countless
types of women
on the earth and
innumerable sorts of men
in the world.
"Flowers" are not
confined to "lilies"
and trees are not all oaks.
The earth is a beautiful space,
thanks to the
vast array
of flowers and trees
on display.
A world which awakens
to the full spectrum
of femininity and masculinity
is a glorious place.

Once

What do you do
when you spend
YOUR WHOLE LIFE
trying to
please your father,
make your mother proud,
be a supportive, protective, generous sibling,
serve as a kind, loving, thoughtful grandchild,
operate as a steadfast, reliable, dependable friend,
achieve the status of "gold standard" as a
model citizen, good person, shining star, and friend to all,
put everyone ELSE before yourself,
do unto others as you would have them do unto you,
and FORSAKE YOURSELF
in order to make everyone ELSE
feel good about you,

but you're still not "good enough"?

What do you do when you've given
YOUR WHOLE LIFE
over to other people to
critique, disapprove, discount,
gossip, slander, discriminate, and

DECIMATE

but, like vampires, they are never satisfied?

Your blood sacrifice is never enough.

What if -- after nearly 40 years of sacrificing
YOUR LIFE on the altar of THEIR approval (or lack thereof) --
you decide to remove yourself from their altar,
WALK AWAY
and begin to learn how to live
the life that was given to YOU
to live
once?

My One Wild and Precious Life

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

-- Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day"

My one wild and precious life
does not belong to my
parents or predecessors
nor to my
pastor or priest or preacher or pope.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to my
president
or to my
principal
or to my
peers
or the
privileged pillars
of my
patriarchal society.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to
politicians
or to the
"pretty people"
or the
power hungry
or to my
pocketbook, property or prosperity.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to a
painful or problematic past
or to
perfectionism
or my
propensity for people pleasing
nor to a
profession, promotion or pursuit of prestige.
My one wild and precious life
does not belong to
purveyors of prejudice
or to
peddlers of propaganda
nor to the
principles that someone else holds.
My one wild and precious life
belongs to me
to protect and preserve it,
to pursue peace,
to practice compassion,
and to progress as the particular person I was put on the planet to be.

(He is offended)

He is offended
when misogyny is found
to be offensive.

Miss Misogyny

What if we gave
patriarchy a breather
and placed women
at the helm
of the world --
mostly large, loud,
"girls' club" cronies
with inside connections
who view men
largely as pieces of meat --
regardless of their
intelligence, experience
or finely tuned talent --
women
who snicker to each other
when a man enters the room
and verbally rate his hair,
face, pecks, crotch,
rear-end, weight and
sense of fashion
as soon as he
leaves the room;
women
who value the
opinion of other women
over any man
nine times out of 10;
women
who, as a matter of course,
assume that women
deserve to be consulted
and considered before
any man's opinion is ever suffered;
women
who appreciate a
good-looking, fit, fashionable
man as a means to an end --
flirty ego booster,
Playgirl playmate,
sperm donor, or,
maybe, if he's lucky
and hot enough,
a trophy husband --
women
but who deem all
men who don't pass
"the pretty test"
as nothing more than potential
back-room assistants,
ghost writers
and support staff;
women
who openly mock and belittle
any man who gets
"emotional" after
being treated as less
than a woman or simply
a sex toy or merely
an annoyance
to be endured;
rude, harsh women
who -- no matter
what they look like --
are only interested in men
who look like
fashion plates,
models and personal trainers;
women who base
their opinions of
a man solely on numbers --
bust, waist and inseam --
women who dismiss
any man who challenges
them with a genuine
concern or thoughtful
comment or genius idea?

Oh, but wait!
That would be
disgraceful,
disrespectful,
discriminatory
behavior,
wouldn't it?

Presenting

I can present myself
the way society
deems most "appropriate":
pretty, cute, feminine,
"standard," primped and polished,
made up with moisturizer,
mascara and mousse,
tightly bound
in claustrophobic couture,
slanted and perched atop
high heels
by way of the most
uncomfortable toe tyrants,
in getups that make
me feel confident
and comfortable
only in the moments
when I measure myself
against the female
"standard" of beauty --
the template
that is not necessarily
prescribed in writing
but is nonetheless
plastered all over
every imaginable media vehicle.

I know how to
play the game.
I know how to pass.
I know how to succeed
in that world.

I can play the part,
but I'm tired --
tired of pleasing
everyone but me
and satisfying everybody
else's needs

but my own.

Don't get me wrong.
I understand the value
and importance of
conveying a professional
image at work
and "putting your
best foot forward"
in social settings.

I realize that every
woman is different
and that some women
may even enjoy
priming and preening
and prancing.
My question is: do
we actually enjoy
the work
of primping
(or pimping, as it were),
or is it only the
acceptance, admiration,
adoration, affection,
affirmation, approval,
or attention resulting from our efforts
that we truly enjoy?

I am not suggesting

that we all stop

bathing and

fill our wardrobes

with rags and tatters.

I simply wish that

we -- that I -- would
release ourselves
from the prison of
patriarchally prescribed
"passability," when it
comes to female beauty.

I'm tired of
asking for permission --
from myself and
from my society --
to be human --
to be a real-life
person, rather than
a prototype or
protege or protagonist
in a man-made story.

The Painful Irony

Here I sit,
in my den,
reading Mary's latest book,
knowing that you,
five miles away,
are likely reading
one of Mary's books.
Though we may read
from the same books,
we are not
on the same page.
Though we share
much in common,
you allow one thing,
on which we disagree,
to keep us
from sharing
our lives together.
The irony is,
you likely feel
the exact same way
about me.

Turning

There is nothing left
but bone --
no more skin,
no more muscle,
no more ligaments.
Just bone.

I've sat here
for nearly 40 years
bleeding
love,
joy,
peace,
patience,
kindness,
goodness,
faithfulness,
gentleness
and self-control
while you --
slap by slap,
blow by blow,
year by year --
stripped away
my flesh,
my heart,
my soul.

Today, I realized
that the pain
will never stop
as long as I
stay here.
Gripping the back
of the pew in front of me,
I manage to
stand to my feet
and slowly
find the exit
as you shout
in shock and outrage,
"But I love you!"
as the sound waves
bounce around
in the empty cavity

of my second cheek. 

A Letter to the Predator

Dear straight Christian friend,

When you post a picture of
a burning gay pride flag online,
I am not merely encountering
an expression of an opinion.
I don't simply see a person
making a statement
about an issue.
I don't view it as
an individual "deeply devoted
to a faith based on mercy and grace"
taking a stand amidst a culture war.

I see my friend
advocating -- and perpetrating --
violence against me.
I feel threatened
and frightened
and sickened.
I see -- with my own eyes --
my friend proclaiming
to me and the world
that I am worthy of abuse.
I witness my friend
declaring me fit for
gasoline
and matches
and burning flesh
and torture
and death.

I see that my friend --
my "loving, compassionate, Christ-like" friend --
is not, in fact, my friend at all.

-- Your gay neighbor

Operation Umbrella

I woke up this morning
to discover that
I had been living my life
under an umbrella
I was handed
years ago by
clergy, patriarchy and society –
an umbrella that
limited my view of the world,
shielding me
from the sky and the sun,
sheltering me from
fresh air, free thinking,
free movement,
and my assimilation
with others
(and, ultimately, myself) –
an umbrella that
I had been holding
above my head
with my right hand
for thirty-some years –
an umbrella
I held because
someone handed it
to me
under the guise of
"instruction" and
"protection" and
"tradition."
That's what
you do when
someone hands you
something, right?
You hold it?

It wasn't until I
noticed the feet
of someone else
moving in a different direction –
a different pattern
than me –
that I dared
to peek outside
of the confines
of my covering to see
how that person
was able to move
so freely,
so functionally.
The umbrella
got in the way of
my view of that person
and it was then
that I noticed
the pole in my face –
the handle
that had become
such a part of me
that I did not see
it
apart
from myself.

It wasn't until I
became aware
of the umbrella
that I realized
that I was actually
holding something;
that my view had been
almost entirely obstructed;
that I had the use of
only one arm
and one hand;
that there's a reason
I had felt so
tired and frustrated
and limited
along the way;
that I finally lowered
my arm, released
the umbrella,
and threw my head back
to an open sky
and the smell
of possibility.

Poetry: Alive and swell

My latest piece for The Space Between, "One Giant Step for Humankind," was posted today, featuring my brand new poem "One Fine Day."  I wrote the poem the day before Alexandra Petri's provocative piece "Is poetry dead?" was published.  Unbeknownst to me, my poem was written in direct contrast to Petri's controversial post, an applicable commentary of my own.  Poetry begot poetry!  Take a look for yourself.  Heck, draft a rebuttal to Petri's pondering, if you feel so inclined!

My Bologna Has a Third Name

Bologna comes in
several, different flavors --
political and religious,
to name two.

Some families
eat a lot more
bologna than others.

While certain folks
raise their kids
on bologna,
others learn what
bologna is made of
and start eating
real meat --
or, better yet,
vegetables.

The Definition of Insanity Turned on Its Head

If we were all born
with different genetics --
different hair
textures, hues and thicknesses,
different eye
colors, shapes and sizes,
different nose,
breast and chest guises,
different skin tones,
and cheek bones
and ear lobes,
different lips and hips and dips,
different metabolisms,
heights and body types --
why do we,
in all our glorious variety,
seek to shed our delicious diversity
in order to adhere to
one "standard" of beauty or identity?

I Am Abuzz

I feel as if
the windows to the world
have been thrown open, like
french doors flung wide
to reveal before me
oceans once unseen
countless hills of green
and a slate scrubbed clean.