do they know

do they know that sometimes
when i'm all alone
i dream up ways to peel his skin off his body
half inch by half inch
to chain him to a wall
with a switch
and a lever
to make him eat his own shit
and drink from his own fountain

could you tell if you were looking at me
walking down the street toward you
would you read it in my eyes
would you see it
would you recognize

do they know that i can hear his screams from the fire upon witch he stands
and i delight in it, with every fiber of my being
that i long for a place, deep within the earth
where no one hears and no one sees
that i want it to be dark, with the only light the candle i bring with me, and take as i leave
do they know the conversations i have with him, each morning before it begins
all over again

sometimes i wonder if it shows
in the way i walk
in the way i talk
is there some red dot or whitehot blindness that people can see, or some sweetsmelling somethingorother lingering as i pass by
does it show
or is that just wishful thinking

i'm so shallow sometimes
i want to be king of the world and queen for a day and it is only the thundering and the gunshots that remind me of the ice that runs sometimes through my veins
when i'm all alone


funny shit sometimes just happens

mama's lil baby just tried to attack my towel

no shit, i'm not makin this up

i'd been cleanin and doin laundry, so i took another bath cuz nothin's worse than stinkin all to high heaven when your lover is on the way home. so i hop in the shower and . . . i hate to towel de-wet my face and try to dry this wild mane--which i'm really lovin cuz my stylist is doin some great shit with it--and so i grab my towel from this chair here. well, apparently my lil knifeypoo thought my towel was a great danger to me cuz somehow she got her left main blade underneath the corner of the towel and wasn't about to let go til i detangled them. i didn't leave them like that. but well, least i know she likes me.

speakin of blades, the stab wound is just about all healed up, though the top layer of skin refuses to reconnect across the point of entry. still a little tender when i bang it on shit, so i've gotta stop doin that, but otherwise, good as new.

ah well . . . another day, another dinner


interestingly, i've been thinking quite a bit about the differences--and similarities--between my lover present and the last bio-born man i let touch me. well, 'let' isn't quite right. 'loved to have', 'wanted to all the time' . . . those are a bit more accurate. but i digress . . .

it's not so different, really. sex is sex is sex unless it's lovesex, which is the main similarity between these two relationships. some of the mechanics are different--praise the LORD in HEAVEN for THAT! vive la difference--not because one is better than the other, but more because variety is the spice of life, and nowhere has this been more apparent than is so in my own sex life. but i've discovered that who i'm attracted to is as fluid as the number of times i cum during a given sexcapade. if it's right, it's right. to be clear, i have no desire to go out and fuck half the world's population just to see if i like biogirls, bioboys, transboys, or transgirls best.

ok, really, that last one an be scratched. of all the mtfs i've known, only one has captured my curiosity, and at that, it was short-lived. when i see her now, it's nice to see her, but . . . well, not.

it'd be hard, too, to even try to rank the good lovers in order of preference because really, there's no such thing as bad sex. sex is just sex is just sex. it's just what you use it for that makes it beneficial or not so much. besides that, i've only had one really good bioboy lover, compared with maybe two or three biogirls who excelled, and my current transboy lover, who can't really be compared since of all of those, only his love has stuck around close enough for me to touch it when i wanna. damn i love that buzzcut. have i said that fifty times enough already? lol fuck you. so there.

anyway, i've got a writing gig and schoolwork to work on.

peace out


fifteen days away . . .

interesting mix of stuff goin on . . . but just the thought of getting outside this borders patrolled by lawyers, guns, and money, . . . well, that's enough to put a lot of yinyang in my hoohah. a lot, but well, still not more than baby with the buzz cut.

i need to get laid again

whurzat buzz cut?

stspreservus and bless all the little pygmy chillin livin in the tundra
ay mayun


the cut

so, lover comes home saturday afternoon with a buzz cut. and i'm thinkin', hmm . . .

yanno, this isn't so bad. i kinda like it like this. tellya what, runnin my fingers through his buzz puts a hoohah in my yingyang, the likes of which i'd never known could exist for me, ms. longhairistheonlysexyhair-ness. oh, i have threatened with death some of my lovers, for even the though of cutting off those long and wavy dark locks that rev my yingyang into overdrive. gone for weeks without speaking to them and cut off sex entirely for any infraction on that particular rule. maybe i was just waiting for . . . the right buzz.

it's been several years since the last bioborn man touched me. fortunately, i still like the last one cuz if i hated him, we'd all be in trouble. so it's been with this trepidation that i've even considered letting any lover since him resemble the male species in any way. i like'm to look real tough and act real tough, but don't cut the hair. maybe cuz then they'd look like all the ones i can't stand, the ones i hate the most. but um . . . my lover and his buzz . . .

not yet.

bein the queergirl part of a transcouple is its own kind of reality. add to that my being a tomboy, and it's not so strange that i am as i am as unbalanced as i am. especially in this relationship because it challenges every premature conclusion i had ever reached with respect to gender, identity, roles, and mechanics. i've got most of the skeleton right, but the internal organs, nerves, tendons, and all that shit are another matter entirely. didn't even know i had premature conclusions til they started bein challenged. aint that a bitch

well, no not really, but that's for later.

my lover and his buzz . . .

let's just say that my 'hair' thing is one premature conclusion that is proving to be most . . . delightning . . . delightfully enlightening, that is . . . to dismantle and discard.


i hate my neighbor

i almost typed the n word. iggeriggerigger. so there.

is hate too strong a word? let's try hat, then. i . . . hat my n . . . e . . . i damn that g . . . hbore. yea, he looks like somethin birthed by somethin that says neigh, but then, that's insulting to all my horse relations. sorry, guys.

anyway, this fucker insists on parking one of his lookie-lookie-i-got-three cars in front of our house every fuckin night. i get the feelin he does it cuz it look like nothin but women live in that house and what duhell she got that i don't got. a fucking brain, dickwad. also, the common courtesy to not park in front of other peoples' houses.

shitcha not, he's got a driveway. hell, everyfuckinhouse on this block has its own driveway. so in his driveway he keeps his buttugly whatthefuckizzat underneath a cover--which, hell, if that thing was the only thing givin it up to me, i might be inclined to cover that shit up, too--but then he parks his other two cars so that one is ending just uphill from his stairs and the other one starts down the hill from his stairs, with a gap in between so he can walk through the two of them, and pimpmobillie takes up the space directly in front of half of my front yard. which i guess is better since he used to park that oil drinkin shitmobile of his directly in front of our front stairs.

well, there's one of two ways around this--and don't go givin me any of that shit about right and wrong. he knows he's wrong. just hates it that i don't speak to him unless my lover is present when i do so. gets visibly pissed everytime it happens. guess i should pity him.

fuck pity. that shit's funny. he needs a lesson in manners.

stspreservus and bless all the little pygmy children livin in the tundra. ay mayun.

i love bein married. you can get laid anytime you want to. theoretically.

oh, speaking of which . . .

it's been said, mostly by me, that i could teach a course on how to be a good wife/spouse/sigo/whatever. and though that may or may not be true, i do have a few pointers for the newbies:

1. DO make your self as trustworthy as possible.
2. DON'T, however, let your lover punish you for the shit all their exes did.

3. DO acknowledge honestly that you have baggage attached.
4. DON'T, however, get so sucked into your lover's shit that you forget that your ass needs wiped too.

5. DO acknowledge honestly when you have a crush on someone, or if you know someone has one one you, or even that you would love to know what s/he fucks like.
6. DON'T, however, ask your lover what s/he would do if you fucked your fantasy object without permission.

7. DO strive to be honest, forthright, and impeccable in your word.
8. DON'T, however, operate under the misconception that your lover wants to hear everysinglefuckinpieceofbellybuttonlint you have, at the PRECISE moment you have it. You just ain't that fuckin important, I don't care WHO you are.

9. DO make every effort to show interest in your lover's life outside of your relationship. This assuming, of course, that if you're married, you're smart enough to not insist that you be the center of your lover's world. You are that smart, right?
10. DON'T, however, poke and prod your lover with pointed questions that begin in that Im-just-asking voice that is never, ever 'just' anything. Nothing justs anything. There is almost always cause, and where there is not lies chaos. If you can't ask like a grownup, shut up til you can.

Time for lovin. See ya soon.


musical interlude #2


where the hell is bristow va? do they like choclit chillun down there? how farzat from lynchburg, cuz i ain't goin no where where the word 'lynch' is the first part of the town name.

well, fuck, it's ozzfest. everybody else can kiss my ass! we're goin!!!!!



my favorite song of late has been aerosmith's 'deuces are wild'

today i discovered that aero and the crue are touring in the fall

i feel a road trip . . .


interesting thing about moms

i just had a really cool conversation with my mom. really cool.

sometimes . . . well, no, a lot of times . . . a lot of times, i don't give my mom the cred she deserves. i don't give my mom her props.

we were talkin about my education and i realized how way much more choice she's given me than how much she got. she's got this . . . way of finding a way to make peace with everything. i've got this one brother, y'know . . . if anybody deserves to be a problem child now, it's him. he never pulled any of the shit we did. mother's oldest son, a molester and a thief, can't wait til he's suckin dirt. next, the second of my mother and father's together, . . . not sure yet, but definitely a pain in the ass early on. then there's me. no outside trouble, but boy did the shit git sturred when i got pissed. i didn't do little shit. i didn't wanna land in jail or juvie like my idiot older brother. i also didn't wanna wind up with a sore ass for the trouble of having a hard head, like the one who came after me. no, i did big shit: shit big enough to get what i wanted but not too big for sympathetics and guilt-riders. i initiated custody battles, isolated myself from each of them whenever i felt like it, cut school two out of my three years in high school, two to five days a week . . . i did whatever i damned well pleased.

i deserved to. and i did it with relish. all accidentally, of course. i don't think i could've planned that much trouble if i'd wanted to.

i was spoiled, to be sure. only daughter of the only son of my grandmother was a really nice place to be in on my dad's side of the family. only saw my mom's side once that i remember, until after the divorce. still don't know'm, but if what my mom says is true--and i don't see why it wouldn't be because she doesn't lie--then it's probably a good thing i don't. i'd prolly do some cussin and i'd rather not do that til it wouldn't embarass her so. i am my family's redhead. that's fun, too.

hunger beckons.


"here's yer sign"

i like bill engvall. his 'here's yer sign' line is funnier'n hell. i didn't realise how often i encounter those moments, til just now.

[ring ring]
honey, do you know where the bandaids are

umm . . . let me think. are you hurt bad?

ok so what do i say? the first thought, 'no dipshit, i just like calling in the middle of the day askin about bandaids 'cause i ain't got shit else to do,' seems a little harsh.

i'm still tryin to think of a B answer.

here's yer sign.


since my friend's suicide, i've been off . . . a lot. it's been a rough fucking term. and while there is no good time for suicide, i do wish she'd've not done it in the middle of the fucking term and at Easter at that! when your year starts off like that . . . capped off by a professor who gave my ten-page research paper an F. a fuckin F?! she and i need to talk.

ahh . . . that feels better.

so, this faith thing . . . i think my essential question to God has been 'why yes to her and no to me?' an odd sibling rivalry to have going on, but interesting, nonetheless. everytime i think of a maybe why, i realize the absurdity of that maybe, and the process starts all over again.

insanity results in one doing the same thing over and over and expecting the end result to change. eye no it isn't going to change -- the result, i mean. so what i'm doing is merely obsessive-compulsive.

compulsions are an interesting thing to self-research. what are the things i do compulsively, things i obsess about when i can't feed my compulsion to engage them in some way, things that i compulsively seek to the point of obsessive distraction? . . . wait, who put these things in there? . . .

well, food's here.


so i stabbed myself in the hand. accidentally, of course, cuz who the hell stabs themselves in the hand on purpose? and this lover of mine . . . brings me a paper towel and a bandaid for a papercut. i had to leave the room to avoid the fallout.

my writing hand, of course. cuz well, even if i'm stabbing myself in the hand on purpose--which i'm not, but i doth protesteth too much (or psomething like that)--even if . . . it would make far too much sense to stab the other hand, so i stab the one i use the most for all those nefarious things i like to do.

nefarious . . . ain't that a cool word. i don't know entirely what it means but it sounds just fucked up enough that it makes me wanna aspire to do it. or be it. or dobedobedo. it.

so i've got this quarter-inch deep writing hand self-inflicted stab wound, and yanno, it don't really hurt so bad. not like they say. i mean, yea it hurts like a bitch in heat who can't get laid. ever live with one of those? ape or fish, a bitch in heat is a beautiful thing to behold. and do. and be. and beholdbedobedo.

it's a cool thing to take a religion class at a secular university. you learn all kindsa crazy shit like that maybe the jihadists are right and maybe christianity as we know it really is a false religion. holy shit, did i just type that out loud? i shoulda; i'm up to 72wpms now--EVERYthing should be typed out loud by now.

see, i don't think that we're on The Way like they meant for us to be on The Way. we're doin some crazy shit that even paul would say oh-hell-no to. this shit about traipsin all over mesopotamia and fuckin up euphrates and tigris, it's a wonder we haven't got our karmic asses kicked . . . and for what? a few barrels of black shit that fucks up the environment from the moment it's airborne? and we wonder why we dehydrate. hell, it's a wonder we don't suffocate. i mean, hey i like cars and stuff just as much as the next ape and i'll miss'm like hell when they're gone--and they will be gone, you understand--but if mcdonalds erects service stations next to their drivethru, i'm there. hell, i'd be there anyway. me an' the mayor go way back.

everything is all about addiction now. it's as if the whole of christendom has been beatin the shit out of the judaists because the judaists won't acknowledge jesus of nazareth the same way they rec'nize adonai, and the judaists don't really care about the muhadmodeans or the christendoms as long as they can get the muhads off jude land, and the muhads are just kinda sayin 'leave us alone, you false and misguided religions' but nobody'll do that so we're all kinda in this jihad against each other. apparently jihad--holy war--is a very addictive product cuz we all just keep swallowin the reasons they give us for sinkin more and more of our resources into it. even the concept of holy war has changed cuz 'usetabe a time when the one who called war was first in battle, but now you don't even need to know how to fight a good fistfight before you send everybody else's mother's son into war while you sit on your ass rosiein out all damn day. so fucked up, this addiction to war we've got. ain't hardly nothin holy about it. anymore.

so i'm thinkin 'what the fuck' . . . apparently we're gonna fight somethin. don't matter cuz everything we're fightin is us turned outward. anti-self is real, like self, and when they collide . . . well, this is what we got. hmm

this popapeology shit's kinda cool. how come they don't sell this?


have i really been away so long?

another symptom of the apatheticism i've been feeling of late. maybe i should run for president.


naked on the bathroom wall
who's the fairest of them all

well, i'm not fair, so it can't be me
and one and one and one is three

and five and five are now eleven
if there is no hell, can there be heaven

well, heaven must be missin you
cheesy nineteen seventies tune

bet i say that to all the girls
they say my stuff just rocks their worlds

no they don't, you just jivin man
least i'm doin the best i can

it's only a lie if i expect you to believe it
it's only a gift if you agree to receive it

i don't know, but i think i'm not
i used to be but i forgot

crammin crammin procrastinator
masterful self-masturbator
never self-incriminator
i wish i was exterminator
or maybe just nexterminator





Today I met the Bodhisattva

She's reading the Bhagavad-Gita and some of The Upanishads.

Oh my.