Angel Of Color

The Angel fell upon me.

And how she laid across me

she looked like a fallen angel.

So I raised her up, uplifted her.

Her breasts met

the morning light.

God saw this and God created

color.

The blue of day was born.

God gasped, God was overwhelmed.

God gave up.

God gave the colors and the day

back to all of us.

So as the angel breathed out

she shared sacredness with me

and everyone else.

Knowing we together on that

morning had reformed God,

the Angel gave me a dress of

dazzling color

that I wore to

Autumn’s banquet that evening.

She wants me to look like

the changing leafs.

I am a changer and I am

her woman.

Lines

Don’t give me that line.
Don’t.
Then you might push me up against
the wall.
Or, I might push you up against
the wall.
We twist and turn, exchange places.
Two kittens playing.
Bites on the neck.
Gentle, trustful, suspenseful,
pull of the hair.
Lips and fingers to the nipples,
teasing brushes.
Two artists brushing each other
with passion and lust.
Isn’t it best when artists
burn with passion and lust?
Walk through the warm light
of your side parlor room,
love that lamp light loving
your riveting figure,
bring the gold mirror,
bring me your beautiful nose,
tilt those hips.
Give me that line again, babe.
Give it to me.
Inhale. Breathe. I like when you pause.
Then I feel that wet silk on my
ancient concubine hands.
And we twist, and we twist.

The Last Morning

On the last morning

we were together

I made chilaquiles.

It was good, maybe

the best chilaquiles I had

ever made.

Afterwards we made love

in the middle of her living room,

giant windows all around,

the beaming sunshine

on our breasts,

her flower melting upon me,

two ancient lovers

lost in our ancient eyes together.

Gasps and moans from our souls

from another lifetime,

melting into one another,

we brought one era to a close

and brought a new one

into being.

Under The Lamplight

Right under the lamplight,
she kissed me right
under the lamplight.
Her arms were big,
they were strong,
they held me right.
Her curled black her
one with the air,
one with my wants,
melting my blood from
leather to lust.
She could turn me over
and over all night long
as her simple frilly girl,
play with my skirt and legs.
As we kissed she trailed
my soft skin
on her fingertips.
The small of my back.
Solid and soft.
Wave in.
Wave crash.
Wave out.
Full moon beaming,
floating,
dominion on high,
coming ‘round clouds.
I gasp. I moan. I gasp.
Tallgrass by the side wavering
in breeze.
My breath.
Her lips.
Her tongue.
She kissed me right under
the lamplight.
Her hand in my hair,
the other on ass.
The moon pulled the light.
The moon pulled the light.

Estrogen In The Morning

I take my estrogen in the morning
as I prepare for my daily judgment.

The lover who will not commit.
The child who furls at me confusingly.
The parade of exclusions from
cisgender women —
silently they say,
“you’re not one of us”.

Why would I do this?
Terraform my body from a
handsome man to a colorful woman.
Why?
So many things stand against me.

Because I
Because I
Because I
believe in the power and the presence
of femininity.
I feel it in my mind, my body, my blood,
and my soul.

Through the feminine I act,
not the feminine aspiring for the masculine,
lusting for patriarchy’s privilege,
no not through this,
but through the dismantling of privilege
and the appetite for it.
This is the feminine
and it is how we will change this
primitive, primitive world.

And this is why I take my pills.

Industrial Night

After the industrial music
at the gay dance club
the industrial dyke
took me
back to her loft.
The chains on her leather jacket
rattled with the city sounds
and the bells waiting in my mind
as we walked to her place and she
held my hand firmly.
She put hard music on
once we were inside.
Again, it was hard.
Her place was just off the Drag,
within siren song of the state Capitol.
She told me to
stand up against the brick wall,
facing towards the brick wall.
Then she told me to trust her
and her earthen perfume
kissed the soft skin of
my neck.
That was trust personified,
angelic being for a simple mortal,
a fissure in time.
She then ripped
my dress off
and instructed me to
“pop my ass up in the air”.
My perky tits and ass
found a purpose…
a purpose no woman, man,
or gender queer
had before ever given them.
She proceeded to do
things to me for hours
that I can’t really write about.
I felt ripe after, like a juiced fruit,
all my fluids everywhere,
spilled and drained.
It smelled like a festival of
pubescence;
springtime flowers,
scents of minerals and virginal
young women
spilled on the concrete floor…
and, and, and
her scent of leather.
All my karma and souls
now reset,
with the angels again in the
sunshine this morning.

These are new things here.
New things for the future.
A proper future,
a future
where the women of America
f@$k the absolute hell
out of each other in freedom
and security.
Where the women of America
have a chance at actually living.

Yes. USA! USA!

We’re coming.

It Is

It is to be said
It needs to be said

Women can love each other
It is “ok”
It is forthright
a way of the Universe
A force and an expression
A form of magic
Very wonderful, applicable,
practical and beautiful magic

Sleeping beneath a tree
I have seen us
as women in love with each other
Grappling, entwined and carnal
The tree has seen us this way
Continues to see us
And wants to see us

Two women loving each other
In branches enveloping
In giving shade and shelter
In standing by for the
ways and days of solitude
and growth

Two women loving each other

Angel Land Municipal Airport

At Angel Land Municipal Airport
the lovers come and go.
Some die.
Some die in our hearts.
The sexually immature ones
leave
and take the train and
their train wrecks
back to their competitive
partriachal pursuits.
Boring sex continues chasing
its tail through the sky.
Where is your angel again?
No, where has she gone?
Sex is a marketplace of desire.
Got it.

The white women cash in
on their privilege.
Oh mommy and daddy.
Wrong, they never cash in.
They protect their interests.
They struggle with generosity
at these crossroads,
rather runways, of mortality.
They struggle, so they leave
Angel Land
in the middle of the night,
a red eye flight,
before those who know them
and those who see them
can actually see them.
This airport is tricky,
wedged between earth and heaven.

Now, where is your angel again?

The Herald Of Angel Land

Angel Land is not a place.

Angel Land is found.

Be a woman, then it’s pronounced.

The love of women.

Holding them. All of them.
All forms. All shapes. All bodies.
All colors.

And to be held by them.
From behind.
Chest to chest.
On our sides.
Quietly, judgment is held
when talking,
no judgment.
Just sunshine coming in
from the window
onto the softest of skin
in the morning
and warming.

Angel Land is in life,
in these hours,
on this Earth.

Angel Land turns the eras.
Calls all angels.
We are gathered.
God is coming.
We come.
We replace God,
the fatherly god.
We give God to everyone
who sees us,
hears us,
hates us,
embraces us.

Angel Land is the era.