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1.

There are fish that bathe in the sand,
and cyclists that wheel over the waves.
I think of me. My schoolhouse on the sea.
Childhood already on skiff boat or bicycle.

Free balloon, the first balloon floating
over the screams that spiraled in the clouds—
Rome to Carthage face to tusk they went,
the fluid, sweet, French sailor boys in sandals.

Anda padrecito! no one ever loved learning Latin at ten.
And algebra, who ever knew what it was at that age!
Physics and the study of Chemistry—God!
Sunlight has better uses: a tan, girls, or futbol games!

And the open air cinema with its chocolate drinks.
Anne Boleyn, why I don’t know, in blue, takes the beach.
If the waves do not wash Anne over, a billy club copper
will dissolve her in the flower light of his lantern.

Penguin tuxedos with tommy guns enter to aim at 
my naked eyes, triggers half squeezed. Frozen— sent 
to cities of instantaneous heavens, I’m wrested
away without a soul, and—

New York flows to Cádiz to my home in the bay—
Sevilla’s fairs to París cafés, Iceland, Persia in a day.
A Chinaman is not a Chinaman.  A Pedestrian is Green 
while at the same time White or Black, don’t you say?

You are everywhere, from the stamen of your rose,
from your red, blooming center without a ticket 
to move—be still and rule all, king of everything you know…
and with every experience send out your postcards.

And by the multiplying passages
in the chase of the trains and trams,
it is not the lightning you imagine that brings your death,
but the million moons from your unassuageable lips.

2.

I was born with the cinema—respect me!
Under a net of cable and airline networks.
I was there when Royal floats were abolished,
and the Pope first ascended the automobile.

I saw phone calls sliding down the water panes,
angel feather blues from the skies raining sideways.
Those seraphic orchestras of the air
guarded the entrance to my ear canals.

Sing song fish from canvases, cloud and nickel
chasing newspapers and letters into the sea.
The postman does not believe in mermaids or sirens
nor in the waltz of the waves, but in death, certainly.

There are still bald spots tethered to the moon,
and sorrowful locks of hair used as bookmarks.
A rush of snow, bleaching the shadow, 
commits seppuku in the gardens.

What could it be my soul, how long ago 
breaks the running record of your absence?
What of my heart?  He is disconsolate. He never leaps.
Haha, stung by harlot’s chance and accident?

Look deeply into my eyes, and, lost,
you’ll break your swimming hips on the anxieties 
of the shipwrecked. The heap of the totally dead norths,
the only echoing be, a wobbling bobble of the seas.

3.

I know gunpowder and flintlock helmets, 
riders without a soul nor feedbags riding through 
wild grown wheat, the fields strewn with crumbling
basilicas, fire streams of blood, lime, and hellish ash.

But also each a bright sun of meeting in each arm.
The bird of morning. Shining like a goldfish, 
keeping a place in the book of love. Upon its head
a number, letter, beak a letter, without seal.

4.

P.s. (from the Great Ambassador to the Pope)

The voice, electricity and the tail 
of the acceleration of stars arose from
the confines of love in an explosion of 
the mechanical world.

Know about me? What I said on the phone
my mellifluous angel to men: who are you,
steel, tin, and lead?—One more bolt 
of lightning, there will be new life.

Author: Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi

After Sleep Token

You pray for rain,

Struggling with the yo-yos of
weightloss
she said this apologizing.
We both laughed.

It really isn’t funny.
It hurts to be called obese.
After years of Slimfast, salads, Keto, 
calorie counting, cutting carbs,
fasting, skipping meals, grapefruit,
Weight Watchers, Nutrisystem, and
now Ozempic, a new diabetes drug.
It’s a clear liquid taken as a shot for
a price both financial and you can
never get off the merry go round
or you will be back in line for the
roller coaster.

What is the answer? Is it  diet, exercise
and willpower? Or is it a genetic problem 
passed down with a brain chemical imbalance?
Take your pick. There are two sides.
I like the latter.

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Small brown shadows
The spots between thumb and forefinger belie the age of my hands
Painted nails of calloused fingertips, scarred from thorns and roses alike.
Soft,  strong, always cool upon fevered foreheads.
Warm with whispered kisses following thin skin blue veins to bring life to touch, firm and tender.
Clasped and gripping
Hold
On.

Give me blue skies
And grass the same 
My old Kentucky home 

sounds of a spring rain sing
to my window panes
percussive beckoning
give ear to their music
crashing cymbals crescendo
brass trumpets fireworks
low rumbling bass brings
symphonic ensemble 
to its second movement
woodwinds whirling
tree limbs trilling
entire orchestra raises
listeners an ovation in awe
of the beauty and splendor
of the majestic performance
that is passing our way

The stranger who cuts you off
in traffic may be more absent
minded than angry or evil. 

The waiter who messes up your order
may be receiving chemotherapy, 
or have a kid serving in a war zone. 

The friend who hasn’t called, hasn’t 
returned your texts, may have lost
her job, or her marriage. 

Other’s lives are invisible to us, 
as our lives are invisible to others.
Think twice before you curse. 

The sweet sound of reel
Baited line making delicate splashes –
Fantastic fishing bliss

Father’s Day approaches.

I no longer have to worry

about the awkwardness

of spending time with my Dad,

but we still have to see yours.

Easter and Mother’s Day

were filled with

ugly political commentary,

transphobic rants,

and racism.

You have told me

I don’t have to see

your family again.

I don’t want to cut off contact yet.

You tell me

you don’t think

they’d act that way

if they knew I was trans.

I feel like we will lose them

once they find out.

Letting go of your family

is not an easy thing.

I have come to care about them

over the past decade.

I have bonded with your father

and we tease each other

like my grandfather and I used to.

You talk about

how he will miss his buddy

when I come out as female.

I don’t talk about how

he is one of the last father figures

I have left.

The family is not gathering this time.

We will have a private lunch with your father.

This somehow makes me more anxious

than the whole group being together.

Perhaps it’s the pressure to play the part,

straight cis male.

More attention on me.

I miss just talking,

just being together,

without having to hear

everyone’s politics

and prejudices.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it,

potentially losing both our families.

I wonder if it’s selfish,

even though you are willing to pay the price.

I don’t know what to do

except to take this

one holiday at a time.