femme2fag pt1: finding home in the hungry body

life sometimes seems to be about a series of unveiling's, peeling away of layers. discovering whats there. sunlight hitting the newest skin. whether i'm ready or not.

in july i'm having chest surgery. the breasts go. gone. fantastic...and frightening...but mostly fantastic.

i think the biggest head fuck over this is the money. I'm on a fixed income, 8k a year, lucky to have a roof over my head. i try to make ends meet by not eating as much food as i likely need to, i go a little bit hungry every day. i live on thin ice. so...who the fuck am i to get an 8 thousand dollar body modification? who the fuck am i to do anything other than sit tight and try not to cost anything? or, how happy am i gonna be with my new chest when i'm sleeping in my fucking car?


since i sold my little home in chacon i've been looking for a new home to buy. but here i am almost 2 years later, the money steadily dwindling, and i haven't found it. i can't get a mortgage so i'm limited to owner financing. and in order for payments to be reasonable for me the property has to 50k or less. you don't get crap for 50k or less in new mexico unless i wanna go waaaaay back out to the middle of nowhere and once again live w/out running water and electricity.The cost of rent is beyond my income. section 8 lists are miles long.

so in the meantime theres been the surgery. this is likely my only opportunity for such a privileged procedure. its attainable w/ the money i have left. if i don't do something the money will disappear into car repairs and dog food. at least with the surgery, it can't be taken away. can't be lost to poverty.

its mine. its my body. its my sense of self. its who i am.

bizarre is how i'm making all the last minutes details come together for this huge journey and surgery while in between those tasks and thoughts i'm a deer in the headlights. my brain desperately trying to find a way out of what feels inevitable. inevitable instability. It feels like when i was a little kid and i was standing at the edge of the shallow end in a pool when i began to slide. slide. slide into the deep end. under i went and i could see the light at the top of the water. and the murky unknown darkness at the deepest point of the pool.

planning surgery is easy. its a straight(hardly)forward task made up of little tasks like emails and list making and research. keeps my head above the murky waters of where the hell am i going to live and make ends meet and not be isolated...and, god forbid, do some work for myself and this fucked up world.

i think i'm harboring some sort of dangerous idea that after surgery something will shift. that the skin shedding will free something up. that the new skin will beam with light.
that i'll start swimming.

catching the storm

there’s a fury nesting in my chest
its all beating wings
and high winds
it roosts there w/ a keen eye for the clouding skies
since I collided
with her feet
then I collided
with her fists
and shes my mirror
she’s my wretched
warrior
she flails about me
reflecting I have
shoved back
kicked away
screamed at
begged to
thrashed and cried
thrown glass
slammed doors
so do I seek them out?
the feet and the fists
and the words like sling shot
into the mirror
into the beaten debris
laid bare for all the world to see
i’m no stranger to those rushed lightning acts of rage
I’ve been the adrenaline warrior flailing the fury
the storm
enacting revenge
or acting the bulls eye
laid bare
for the open stare
her
and I ache where her fury
collided into my
disconnect
where my disbelief turned to face her storm
where i pushed back
wielding a mirror image
that’s so plain
to see
there’s this fury in my chest
its wings are beating on my rib cage
crashing up against my lungs deepest breath
and I understand now
the anatomy of a storm
the travel patterns of lightning
as it rolls thru building tension
it envelopes everything in its path
leaves everything changed
everything bruised and left to heal
seems i’m forever healing exhaling the slowest relief
seems i’m forever on my knees in the slightest light
my chest closed tight
i look around and everywhere
everywhere
is the debris of me.






*i began writing this poem years ago. i'm finally happy enough w/ a draft to share. as usual, i think its better performed.

the sun rises on fabulous

Beyonce's Single Ladies dance performed by Darius Crenshaw, Grasan Kingsberry, and Brian Brooks with bonus choreography.

this took my mind off all my troubles this morning...for a few minutes. so so yummy.