A rediscovered poem

I found this in my 2013 dream journal, from when I was still in the closet.

 

My dreams were born from above, not below,

or if below, in the  primal ember of love and material birth

in a subterranean reality  not infernal, but  from clay and blood.

And if above, from the more primal womb, the first vibration that stirred the world to dancing.

From a place like this came my dreams, not from some titanic abyss.

My dreams were born in Heaven, not in Hell;

whatsoever has become of them, this at least I can know.

I can taste the glory in the slightest breeze that stirs them

And my heart leaps like a certain child upon a certain vibration.

I know very little, but I know this: the wellspring of this water is on the slopes of the Holy Mountain.

My dreams were born of God, not of sin.

It’s only logical, after all, for things of darkness may be spoken of but oughtn’t be,

Yet my dreams are of a rhythm that must be played yet can’t be.

I obviously never finished it, but I like the ideas I was expressing.

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Remember Bethlehem (a poem)

Remember Bethlehem

 

Son of Man, Daughter of Man,
Remember the quiet of Bethlehem.
Remember how the moonlight smote
the dust motes and lunar moths like
an astral kiss one Wednesday night
while glory cried the katydids and
The Lord of the Universe waved a single
straw with newborn, new-founded gravity.

Remember still suburban peregrinations—
of more prestige than the Dolorosa—
that stricken you with such holiness
as breeze and swan-laughs can muster.
And keep heart-side that hand-stitched brocade
which you held to light in clutch and knew:
this was singular, holy, delight of
your soul, precious as Baptismal Robes.

Remember the crusaders, neo-liberal shmucks
who give more than their left-hand can know;
the alcoholic in graffiti alley more consecrated
than a hundred priestly virgos; the chip
of no-paint on the girl’s blue pinky like
a window, a rending, in the Creative cloth.
All the Masses in the world weigh poor against
the sleepless mother and the liturgy in her heart.

Remember, child, the measure of a glance,
how unwavering eyes have strength to pass
alms like x-rays; how supermen change in phonebooths
when they call home and their alien hearts melt;
how makeup-dabs jostle Earth’s foundation
like Lenten ashes and the boy with glasses seems
a Savior. Do not mistake such cloud-breaks as
mundane, for smaller things inherit the stars.

Son of Man, Daughter of Man,
Remember the quiet of Bethlehem.
Remember the mysticisms of tea bags
and toaster-ovens, mint face-wash like Holy Water.
If God was found in Heaven, no need
for Him to stoop to Earth; yet our doorstep-
swaddled child arrives, to turn mountains
to molehills, and plunder Hell of triviality.

Giving birth, being adopted, becoming a “transphobe,” hating reality TV, and generally entertaining revelations against my will

For months now my posts here and at catholictrans have been building up to a new direction. I realize in retrospect that everything I’ve posted recently, original material or otherwise, have been the contractions leading up to massive labor pains. For many insomniac nights I’ve been squinting at my dark ceiling and seeing patterns of motion, webs of ideas, and clashing good n’ evil in such a large vista that my small human mind can’t actually piece it all together and I feel literally insane. But slowly, the different pieces that I feel to be interconnected are presenting themselves to me in an orderly queue. Continue reading

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Who Decides What Makes a Woman?

Who Decides What Makes a Woman?.

“Womanhood is not an exclusive club. So many people are in it, and we are all so very different from one another. We shouldn’t imagine any of us hold the keys to womanhood. Yes, trans women have some different lived experiences than cis women—though fewer than one might expect. The trans women I have gotten to know share my struggles to overcome internalized sexism, and constantly confront the kind of suspicion of the feminine that trans theorist Julia Serano describes in her book Whipping Girl (required reading, truly). They face employment discrimination at rates even higher than cis women. It’s hard to imagine a trans woman who doesn’t know what it feels like to walk down the street and be afraid for her safety because of her gender. I bet I have a lot more “womanhood” experiences in common with my trans women friends than I do with the Queen of England, who has certainly never worried about birth control, gotten her period on the subway, or scraped by on half a man’s salary. Surely her brain has also been shaped by her experiences, which are very different than mine. Are we going to revoke her womanhood, too?”

Read more here.