The way out of a room is not through the door. Just don't want out. And you're free.
—Charles Manson

Look, Are You Under the Bed?

Fire hydrant in the last

days of platitude

        

I is just another way

of asking who

Pompous is the crater

that belies us

Plenty is the sign

that cooks the corn

Gnome that empty

spills the water

Tree jet crash that never

greek nor worm

Horizon revise

parkway

crave imagine

Tower walks

the poker flat

& horn

=Oh Look! It's a Transgirl in the Ladies Room!!! And Nothing Happened!!! (Again)=

I don't use the ladies room often, but on the rare occasion that I do, it's not because I get a kick out of it. I use it as a last resort. I don't know what kind of haven of erotic opportunities men imagine anyone's going to find in the ladies crapper. But let me tell you, it's no seraglio in there. There's nothing vaguely erotic about it whatsoever. It's a shithouse, for crissakes. You don't want to spend any more time in there than you absolutely have to. What's more, I don't have so much as a lesbian's sexual interest in women. There's more of a chance of me being sexually assaulted in a ladies room than of me assaulting anyone.

Looking as I do, I would create more of a disturbance in a men's room than I would in a ladies room. So the way I see it, I'm doing everyone a public service by quietly and unobtrusively using the ladies room. Do you really want to have to explain to your little boy "what's that lady doing in the men's room?"Are you ready to have that conversation? Do you want to risk putting ideas into his little head? Like, you know, maybe he would decide he'd like to be a woman, too. I wonder if the close-minded gender determinists who seek to ban transgender people from using the toilets corresponding to their expressed gender identity have thought that all the way through? 

As for the imagined theoretical peril that transwomen are posing in the ladies room, consider this. If they banned everyone from a public restroom based on what they might do, no one—gay, straight, man, woman, transgendered—would be allowed to go. We'd all have to hold it in until we busted. Then we'd all see how full of shit most of us are. Do we really want that? Well do we?

A proper sissy table setting for the infantilized sissy!
Yes, i just loooove Hello Kitty!
i found my place already all set for me this morning when i came out to fix Daddy his breakfast. Daddy no longer expects me to act like an adult anymore & he doesn't want me to either. Those days of pretending are over, he says. Now the only pretending i do are with my dollies. 

Baby Wipe, the Terrible

Okey doke

     pig in a poke

            chevrolet

                  smackdown

                        corn

                 clandestine baboon

                             samovar

                       shroom

                   bedrock

                          bedouin

                        porn

      tongue clapper donut

                     birdhouse

                         ace

      maxi

 moxie

moan

         levitating fox

        dandelion box

        azalea

         crunch-time
                          base

I Am Joe's Spare Buttplug!

Be the only person in the world to read this poem!

Be the only person in the world!

Amaze your friends and neighbors!

Go down deep in the bathysphere of your solipsism!

See strange creatures never before seen!

Be unable to tell anyone!

Now is the time! Time is running out!

17 Mouthwatering Pork Recipes!

Never before has it been easier!

Obetz, Ohio!

Look into your underpants and surprise yourself every time!

Grow wings!

If 100 people read this poem, Trump will be impeached!

If 1000 people read this poem, Death is defeated. He becomes your BFF and goes shopping for shoes with you at the mall and buys you a smoothie at the food court and just turns out to be a really all-around nice guy who'd never hurt the proverbial flea!

Or an actual flea!

If 10,000 people read this poem, forget about it, there will be talking unicorns and rainbows and smiley pink stars and you just can’t even imagine!

I have an entire Mexican family living under my sink!

True story!

They love it!

So will you!

Here lies all that stuff!

Everyone in the World Should Just Fuck Me Already

My lifestyle is killing the Earth. 

Even if everyone signs up  

to the agreements that are on the table now

that still can't get us past 

the point of no return.

Stop watching television. 

Seriously. 

Fuck me instead.

TV shows you mostly negative information

about pumping water out of a boat.

It means nothing.
It doesn’t tell you how to find the energy

& strength to build a better manatee.

It is always good for what ails me

when someone compulsively lights matches

& flicks them over the railing.

Everyone has a mission in life; 

everyone must carry out a concrete assignment.

The truth is, I have no fucking idea

what mine is

& it doesn’t bother me anymore.

Nowadays, two people have different opinions

about how to pour water

from a gourd. Or where to

purchase a gourd.

Or whether a gourd is a Pontiac

or not.

Or what a Pontiac is, etc.

Suddenly, it’s World War 3. 

The path may be simple

or not.

Who can tell?

The urge to drink alone grows old

as you grow older. It's not like tea 

can stop me from unleashing 

the sickest dance moves.

THE ROBOTS ARE HERE.

My tits look for their meals in tree canopies, 

although they do spend a lot time on the ground.

Touch my tits on the Eiffel Tower.

The Space Needle is a good place for reaming out my asshole.

When I have difficulty fishing in a hard pipe, 

I remove my fish. 

The fish tape back in the conduit

and push passed any obstructions.

They do this with ease. 

If you have additional trouble

feel free to use  a heat gun inside the fitting 

with a needle nose pliers.

I won’t mind.

I promise.

I am looking out the window now

searching for Flanders.

On my easel is a cracked elbow,

a great focal point,

and an outlet box.

Everything else we’ve left in a storage unit

on a planet
yet to be discovered.

With so much available language, does anyone really need to write more? Instead, let’s just process what exists. Language as matter; language as material. How much did you say that paragraph weighed? 

—Kenneth Goldsmith

Confessional Poetry is Like Pooping into Your Own Mouth 

It must have been one of those banana farms 
on wheels you hear so much about

on the internet these days. Or the giant penis 
outlined in the skies above Auckland.

Or…

Or…

Well never mind. 

It's yesterday's obsession; today, he's a cat 

and just can't help himself. 

More importantly, 

is there something I am not letting Jesus

do in my heart? This glass of milk,

for instance, is a lot like you.

It’s a proven fact: if you've got a bottle of chocolate syrup
and a few other items, you, too,

can become a worldwide sensation. 

A farmer admitted doing it,

but claims it was largely an accident

& he doesn’t want to be identified.

Accident? 

A second piglet was born 

with a penis on its forehead! 

Paper, money, the side effect of street vendors,

pour a little into your hand. 

It's sticky.

But these rules must be followed

to the absolute last letter.

And I've only seen smokers on TV.

Before you start, however, make sure you’ve met

the minimum requirements 
of the art and, remember,
the Judas tagging system is legal. 

You won’t regret it. 

Well, you might.

But only if you become a tall isolated object
walking across an empty plain.
Or a red fish.
By the way, is your name Max?

Don’t flatter yourself, grasshopper. 

Not all feet are seductive.

Sure, sometimes it's fun to open your wallet 

just a little wider than your mouth.

Is it a call to your third-century manhood?

Is it all in vain?

As for me, I hope I can find a way to return

this napkin,
this holy grail.

Sissy cupcakes!!!
Yes, even food can be gendered. And, in this case, queered.
I want to be the sexual equivalent of one of these cupcakes.
If I had to choose, I'd be the one second from the right. 

Lollipop Zen 

Leopard leopard
         with a cherry on top
who will dream thee into flight?
      The moon in the park
said come here little boy
         & everything went dark
           a little bird
                 made of godawful light
extinguished itself
              with a wink 
& the leopard crouched down
     by the blue throat of a river
              to have itself a drink
merry-go-round
merry-go-round
      spinning so tight
                      the stool
                            & the cum
                                   & the fork
why did they put a man on the moon
            & who was the Last King of Pork?
The boy grew unconventionally quiet
              the moon left a black x 
                       stitched in the sky
    & because if it could 
            it would be the best thing of all
 a leopard was made the way a leopard was made
                         so no leopard will ever fly

A great, must-read book if you're not just jerking off—literally & figuratively—about being transgendered. 

I finished this book with a sense of humiliation & shame at the relatively shallow way I've been thinking of my own transgendered state. Instead of insisting on a right to equal existence, which I've never felt, and which I was never encouraged to feel, I've developed a manner of thinking consistent with my need to eroticize the unbearable in order to make the pain of my existence something I might survive. I've been complicit in my own marginalization by suggesting that I can be of purpose to society by being, basically, the sexual "whipping girl" of a cisgendered society.  Heterosexual men,  I reasoned, looking for an embodiment of the femininity that many women have abandoned as being beneath dignity & which has been systematically disdained by the women's movement and queer activists as politically incorrect, will increasingly turn to sexualized, overtly, & overly feminized transgendered girls like me to get their femininity fix. And it's true, it worked, and, in my case, even had a happy ending. But Serano, taking a wider, healthier, less solipsistic, &  socially responsible approach, illustrates, quite correctly, that my attitude is playing right into the hands of our oppressors, keeping us forever marginalized, hidden away like spare-time secret sex toys. I am turning what is a sexual fantasy into a philosophy of life and a social programme. It would be akin to African Americans openly admitting that the idea of being a slave turns them on sexually or a Jewish person admitting to having concentration camp sex fantasies (who knows…maybe some people do have such fantasies) but then doing the truly unthinkable: crafting a way of living around this admission. What I am doing is what I did as a child: conceding that I have no power, ceding all rights to my superiors (starting with parents and extending to everyone), and then taking comfort in masturbatory fantasies of my eroticized subjugation and victimization.

That's clearly no way to actually live one's life and no way to change an unjust society.

Serano has a very sophisticated and savvy theory that feminine transgendered woman are targeted for derision and exclusion not just because they are transgendered—F-to-M don't suffer to nearly the same  degree—but because they transgress not only society's strict binary gender expectations, but also because they choose to be feminine. It is femininity itself that is under attack. And the reason femininity gets such a bad rap is that it has always been regarded, even when regarded well, as a weakness, a limitation, an artificiality, a submissive orientation: the idea that a woman is meant to be a pretty ornament, for instance. A woman might be said to be a societal victim of the femininity trap. But what male-born person would voluntarily choose to give up his male-privilege & power to become a powerless feminine woman? She must be stupid or crazy, self-hating or perverted or otherwise just plain beneath contempt. What Serano seeks to do is show how transwomen are victims not just of transphobia but good old fashioned misogyny. Femininity does not equal doormat. Serano is fighting to take back the idea of femininity and give it the positive value it deserves. She is trying to show that a femme transgirl doesn't have to be a pushover, a public urinal, a whipping girl. She is trying to give girls like me a bit of backbone, one vertebrae at a time. Part of what makes her book so successful is that even submissive, masochistic transwomen like me already know deep down how much strength, determination, and desperation it has taken to get as far as we've gotten in our transition, how much ridicule & rejection & isolation we've had to bear in order to stay sane, stay alive, and continue forward. She knows how hard a fight it is to be true to our nature and our natural femininity in the face of unrelenting public hostility, while at the same time bearing the hypocrisy of that same public's lurid fascination, and, in secret bedrooms, the taboo lightning rod of its erotic desires. 

The problem is that, given my nature, I'm never likely to take the whip from the hand of my oppressor. So how do you demand respect from an inferior position? How do you top from below? Every masochist has her own strategy but this game is usually played out in private. How do you do it publicly? How do you take a stand socially and politically? How does a whipping girl make demands for respect and equality while tied, often willingly, to the whipping post and have those demands heard, taken seriously, accepted and satisfied? That's the trick. And in this book Julia Serano tries to provide at least the basic understanding necessary of the obstacles we face in figuring out a strategy for freeing ourselves—Houdini-like—from what would seem to otherwise be an all-but inescapable trap.   

Remembering My Childhood While Wearing a Stovepipe Hat

Dad, shaving his face off in the mirror,

I couldn’t reach him, not even his reflection.
He told me he was in love with lobsters

and you know how far down they go.

By then, mom had passed.

She’d contracted terminal forsythia.

She was planted by the remains

of the public gallows we used as a swing-set

back when the twins were still young.

Oh when the twins were young, a thousand

tortured tongues ago!

My memory at this point fails me

like some guy making toast in his underwear

on a hot plate in a Motel 6.

But I’m sure, given what you know already

about life, you can feel in the blanks:

a. Tumbleweed

b. Malamute

c. Carbuncle or Capicola
d. All of the above

"If you require any evidence that femininity can be more fierce and dangerous than masculinity, all you need to do is ask the average man to hold your handbag or a bouquet of flowers for a minute, and watch how far away he holds it from his body. Or tell him that you would like to put your lipstick on him and watch how fast he runs off in the other direction. In a world where masculinity is respected and femininity is regularly dismissed, it takes an enormous amount of strength and confidence for any person, whether female or male-bodied, to embrace their feminine self."
—Julia Serano

Well, I can certainly see her point. But I never considered myself particularly strong, confident, or courageous in transitioning. For me, it was almost an unthinking reaction to an intolerable situation…the way you flee a burning building or run away from a poisonous snake. My so-called "male identity" being the burning building, the poisonous snake. I transitioned not as an act of defiance or courage or even self-assertion. I did it for what could just as easily be seen as the most instinctive, even cowardly of motivations. I did it to save my life.

How to Have an Eye Orgasm Every Time 

My father murdered us all in our beds

but it was okay because he

left a nightlight on & read us

a bedtime story first

which always ended happily ever after.

My mother was a figment of my imagination.

She existed at the bottom of peanut butter jars

& inside of eggs.

To feel her I had to wet my finger & stick it

inside of electric outlets.

But don't misunderstand what I'm saying
as a linguistic form of cystic fibrosis.
I am looking for no man or woman’s pity.

Mounted on a central spindle with a handle,

I learned early that you can look your best 

with just the right amount of adhesive.

It’s up to you to make yourself a worthy 

member of society

either as a bug spray or an air conditioner;

it doesn't matter what.

When will I begin my second pregnancy?
When should I begin potty training?

When do I begin to lose all hope?

These are badly worded questions.

You have to imagine a world lit by fire 

in which most people are cold.

You have to make the most ambitious effort

at the most crucial stage of development

to reverse your image. 

In other words, the yellow journey is taken by the rider

who is not the winner.

Despite over a century of interest,

all the zebras galloped out of New Orleans

as early as 1875.

They’d had enough. 
Still, there’s a zebra behind every door.

These are my new socks. Aren't they just the cutest, sweetest, sissiest socks you've ever seen?! I was wearing them along with a black miniskirt when I went to Harbor Freight Tool Supply with Daddy yesterday. I'm so used to living as a girl now that I forget what a big deal it would have once been  (and not all that long ago either) for me to leave the house wearing the pink sneakers with a pair of jeans, let alone a miniskirt. Just to have some fun with myself, I tried to re-capture that earlier time of fear & illicit excitement. I made myself think what a sissy I am, mincing around among all these gruff, shaggy men all serious about their tools & chainsaws & stuff while looking like the complete pansy I am. What if they knew I was a sissy-faggot? Maybe they even do know! This is what I was thinking, standing by the cart, staring off into space, lost in fantasies, trying not to look if guys were looking at me, while Daddy was examining the sanders or hacksaws or whatever. 

Cynicism is a good thing to have on the outside, but it's a terrible thing to have on the inside.
—Courtney Love

Dear Visitors (from Earth & Other Planets):

Please note. If you're looking for the hardcore "sissy stuff," you'll have to look further back in this blog. I'm still as big a sissy as ever; even bigger, in fact! Sissyhood has so consumed me that I don't even notice being a sissy anymore. It's like the fish in water. You know, the way it doesn't even notice the water. It's like that. Or something. Anyway, for the time being, I feel I've already posted more than enough pictures of myself & other sissies on this blog. I'm sort of bored with that at the moment. I might get back to it eventually. I've a notoriously short attention span. In fact, I'm losing interest in what I'm writing right now. So I'll make an end to it. Look at last year's postings for the more explicitly sissy material if you'd like. The internet is full of pictures of sissies like me holding up their nighties or pulling down their panties showing off their attenuated winkies! And I feel I've done my share to add to that. Maybe even more than my share. Right now, I'm in a more  "arty-poetic" phase. 

Smooches………... 

This Poem Has Been Censored by the FBI

Yesterday I got eaten by a bear.

It wasn’t even a particularly ferocious bear.

More like a natty brown rug 

full of cat fur & crumbs propped 

up on some old broomsticks.

I think he was even missing some crucial teeth.

Maybe an eye.

I didn’t run very fast trying to get away either. 

I made a kind of lazy, left-handed lope of my escape. 

I don’t know why. I can’t explain my curious lassitude.

I guess I just didn't care very much. 
I guess I couldn’t be bothered.

I was out hunting 1916 biplanes in the forest.

It's a hobby of mine.

The Sikorsky, the Sopwith, the Halberstadt.
The names roll off the tongue like a mouse pad

& a helmet. 
The Junkers, the Nieuport, the Sopwith Pup.

I had with me a box of tissues, a portable drill press & my untreatable ophthalmolphobia.

Yesterday was a day a lot like this one.

You could have cut it with a knife, 

but who would want to
with the mess it would make?

There. The scene is set.

I don’t know much about the digestive system

of a bear. What I do know

is a lot of useless stuff about Keanu Reeves.
Biplanes are like insults. When you start
looking for them, you find them everywhere.

A bear’s digestive tract is short, 

only 40% the length of a normal herbivore.

It cannot digest mature plants. 

It’s the cellulose that give it trouble, buster.

Keanu Reeves, however, does not appear to suffer

the same problem.

I wish I’d known all this before I was eaten.

I, myself, have often been accused of immaturity.

You can be the judge of that.

There are a lot of things that have crashed 

unheard in the forest

A bear could be one of them.

So could Keanu Reeves.

The supersonic jet of the future will be a biplane

according to the Japanese

who should know as well anyone.

If it flew 100 years ago,
it will fly again.
We must somehow keep the faith.

It's necessary to maintain a state of disobedience against everything.
—Alice Notley

10 ways salami can help you live to 100

So the first thing you want to do is walk around the park

                     three times. Oh the daisies or lilacs or

                                        whatever the hell they are.

Is someone burning tires at the end of the driveway?

            Garden hose is a euphemism

                     for what they did to my aunt, those bastards.

The rain fell & fell & fell.

        A month of grim, left-handed Sundays,

                          that’s what it felt like to all of us.

They shuffled, slump-shouldered, into the theater

under a blank marquee. I refused.

Instead, I heard the cherry blossoms screaming.

                                     No farm girl, even I could tell that the cows were wired wrong.

One of these days, we’ll look back on all this

 & kill ourselves in shame.

Oh, who am I kidding, 
standing on a block of ice the way I am.

=sissy diary=

Daddy gave me a short massage, then he had me pull down my Chinese pajama bottoms, & rubbed his rough patch on my soft little clittie. I had to admit what a soft little cocksucking faggot I am, a born Daddy-pleaser, & Daddy called up an image of me wearing tight little shorts & sandals, which is actually something I remember doing when I used to ride my bike as a kid. I would notice guys looking at me once in a while & get a sexual rush. Daddy made me admit a few other things, too, and what he was doing with his finger felt really good but a sissy cummy wasn't on the menu for me tonight. What was on the menu was me kneeling on my new pink sissy pillow & giving him a blow job on the bathroom floor. Then nestled back in bed, I had to repeat "I'd Daddy's pink sissy princess" over & over until I started drifting off to sleep. Somehow that must have seeped into my unconscious because I had a really intense sexual dream that might have turned into a wet dream if I could only make any wetness nowadays & if something—I think Daddy sneezing from the other room—hadn't woken me up! So even in my sleep I'm teased with a cummy! Oh the travails of being a sissy!!!