Bureaucracy Lulz.

So far this term, I have had to argue with school administration to convince them to use the same procedures they used last year (apparently there's like a one-year trans-friendly period after which it's the same old fucking shit) to avoid outing me to everyone in the whole world, and with doctors to avoid their diagnosing me with crazy trans disease instead of lupus (seriously, the rheumatologist felt I needed to settle my 'psychological issues' before um the ANA test was valid? GOD KNOWS). And today I'll try to convince a bank that my dirty trans money is good enough!

What fun.

For extra hilarity, the check I have to start an account with AND my proof of address are both from the Academy of American Poets (won a small contest; it's not the Newdigate or anything, but it brought in money). I am sure this inspires confidence in my ability to keep money in a checking account.

Fourth Annual Brigid in the Blogosphere Poetry Slam

Today is Brigid's day, and in terms of virtual observances, I can't think of anything better than an online poetry reading. It's also the perfect post to inaugurate this particular blog. My contribution follows.

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

-Ezra Pound


Tea with Honey

He rolled over sonnombulant,
a private action that hadn't
a meaning. I was only
the book he fell asleep
reading the night before.
Something soporific between
the covers. I was boring him
again. A too-heavy tome,
it was my pleasure to put him
to sleep.

-Simon Creek


Warming Her Pearls

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I´ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She´s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit´s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head.... Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does.... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.

-Carol Ann Duffy


A Poem

Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn't you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?...

-Nichita Stãnescu