Still More Poetry…

Written by: Bastian Quinn

Periodically, I’m going to post some poetry that I have written. This is a sampling of some of the work I have had published in the SER. The most recent poems, “Yon Gipper,” “Silent T”, “Stroke (Don’t forget to breathe)” and “fog” were published last year in 2009.

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Yon Gipper

I am no longer in New York during passover and a papal visit (which means the odds of my actually being able to say “Good yontiff, pontiff,” have now dropped from astonishingly faint to none).
—Neil Gaiman

Bowed heads prey for the gods’ odd blessing;
Sacrificial fast day full of long lesson.
She’erut ha-Nefesh, gehenna, or something which purges,
cleansing the soul of imperfect world urges;
Sunken teeth into meat with soul trapped within,
blood on priestly garments revealing all sin,
little tree in the grotto between the two thieves
has now bloomed away, blowing ashes of (dead) leaves
Perfect Sun perpetuates the feast of ablution,
thus man transubstantiates his own absolution.
Look within, find decay, rotting Divine spark—
Know that one must find forgiveness the lost art.
No ordinary time, nor a turtledove or lark.
Man must reconcile, Id trapt, encased in dark heart.

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Silent T

As hormones began their defining trickle from purses of glands,
as personalities sharpened like cheekbones beneath the melt of baby fat,
I saw not so much where I belonged but where I didn’t.
—Michelle Tea

I found a group today. (They were really gay.)
I asked if I could join. (They said I wasn’t cool enough.)
I told them that sometimes people hated me, too.
Told them that some people like me were even killed.
They pondered this, but decided I would only confuse their key issues.
“See,” they said, “Sexuality isn’t really about gender.”
I said that Gender is fluid, like Sexuality. It’s everything (and nothing.)
They wanted to get married. (But my family’s still being raped.)
They wanted to be able to have kids. (Some of our kids don’t get to grow up.)
They wanted job protection. (Some of us can’t even get jobs to call us back.)
I asked if there wasn’t something we might be able to work on together.
They said they’d think about it and get back to me later.
So, I smiled sadly and walked away.
Invisible boy doesn’t need any more reasons to feel invisible.

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From Twin Cities' 1st ever TransMarch (June 2007).

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Stroke (Don’t forget to breathe)

So, keep your spirits up, and get that degree in Astrohistorical Jellybeans
or something similar like Education, which pays a little better.
—E-mail from Dad three weeks before he passed away

Fingers slice through velvet chemicals,
eyes open against the burn
pulling arms, lungs past the usual minute or two
breaking surface with a gasp,
a stroke too many
Can beat it. Can win. time laughing
underwater, under silence, underneath
invisible tears choke (up) already spent lungs
red sore eyes. no joke.
a stroke too many
Shaking now by the tiled edge,
chlorine melts into sweat
best worn as cologne glowing in the morning
trickling down forehead, back, into eyes
rub it away with a hand, burning them again
a stroke too many
sink below the surface before the stream returns
pull, kick, pull, lunge, gasp
memories replay in a mind overfilled…
don’t forget to breathe
don’t forget to joke
one stroke, another, one too many
lungs burning, heart pounding
one more moment of silence
skin saturated with sweet chlorine
one more stroke, one more–

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fog

I know G*d will not give me anything I can’t handle.
I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.
—Mother Teresa

it’s the stuff dreams are made out of–
this nonessential thick layer of humidity
pressing in on all sides
takes my breath away
(could any soul have the energy to escape this heat?)
perhaps the weather is as inconsequential
as the shroud over my mind
through which i understand nothing
clutching the folded flag like some stuffed bear
numb to the world, i cannot be
yet here we are, notre dame until death
even then, engraved in stone or encased with urn
we’re still fighting Irish
still here, loyal to Our Mother
even still.

Still Loyal Notre Dame fans, even unto death and beyond.

More Poetry

Written by: Bastian Quinn

Periodically, I’m going to post some poetry that I have written. This is a sampling of some of the work I have had published in the SER. “FTM Checklist”, “Midwest Blues” and “Statick Electricity” were published in 2008.

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FTM Checklist
Exoskeleton on, and the transformation begins…

First the brains–
Learn the terms: DICKlet/diCLIT, trannyfag, M2M, breasticles, man hole, cockpit, tranny bonus hole, T, pre-op, post-op, non-op, FTM, F2M, boi,man dyke, packy, binder.
Read the books: My Gender Workbook, by Kate Bornstein; Stone Butch Blues, by Leslie Feinberg; Butch is a Noun, by S. Bear Bergman.
Know your history from Joan of Arc to Billy Tipton, Sr. Catalina de Erauso to Stonewall, Two-Spirits to F.C. Martinez, Brandon Teena to Loren Cameron.
Pick a new name: Aiden, Jayden, Caidan, Andrew, Jesse, Mykal, Casey.
Gender police politely. Don’t jump down people’s throats when the wrong pronoun slips out. You were born the dickless boy wonder. Remember? They’re trying!

Then the bod–
Work out those abs and arms! (50 push ups, 25 pull-ups, and 300 crunches a day.)
Protein shake with estrogen blocker and muscle builder.
Walk at least 3 miles a day, everyday.
Carry mace or a knife at all times. Protect yourself.
Learn self defense and do not hesitate to use it. Always fight back!

Then the actions–
5.5″ Stand-To-Pee packer and harness.  (Don’t forget the catcher!)
Practice peeing in the shower first.  It might go down your leg.
Use the Men’s room without much eye contact and avoid conversation,
especially if your voice is pre-T.  Remember, guys don’t *always* stand to pee.
Use chest voice!  Practice deepening your voice using a piano keyboard.  DoTiLaSoFaMiReDoTi—
Guys take up more space.  Make sure you take up as much as you can.
Buy and wear Boy Scout shirts from thrift stores.
Wear a TransManArt T-Shirt ordered off of Cafepress.

And finally appearance–
4.25″ soft dick in briefs.  Keep it secure.  Don’t let it fall out!
Hair freshly cut short.  Keep your sideburns trimmed.
Breasticles bound firmly flat.  With a binder from Underworks, they feel more like pecs now.
Peach fuzz face shaven smooth and clean.
Old Spice and Brut, not White Rain and Victoria’s Secret.
6.75″ silicone cock on hand with condoms and lube “just in case.”

Check your clothes.
Check your chest.
Check your dick.

Scratch.  Readjust.

Don’t forget to always be true to yourself, no matter what the consequences.

Now, strut please.

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Myself and my partner (September 2008).

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Midwest Blues
New York’s purples, O-town’s indigos,
lost in translation — you know how it goes.
Ocean waves ebb, crest, flow–
fields of golden wheat, reap only what’s sown,
yet there is a central element,
when East and West combine, ferment.
Hops risen from fields of soy and barley
purer than any well-traveled Coaster may see-
Whether Las Vegan, Bostonian, or Atlantan,
it pierces the soul of any who descend
to view America’s breadbasket, home on the range
where Republicans roam free and 3rd parties are changed,
wrapped in milo, cattle, deer, and buffalo hide.
Easy to see why so many here have thrived
through dustbowl summers and deindustrialization,
schismatic religious debates, and prohibition.
Not from land which stubborn yet fruitful persists
not in memory, history, true azul service.
The heavens weary on with fiercest deep hues
of (an) unchanged sky full of pure Midwest blues.

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Statick Electricity
Snap, fizzle, bop!
Your knee touches mine while Feinberg, Amichai, and Neruda quips
play like soundtracks read through our fingertips.
Pretend my hands’ dance across the nape of neck
does not make transJews think of gender and sex.

Hoot, crackle, quiet…
Heschel meets Bornstein while
Weisel greets Bergman.
Smile erupts on freckled face
with a clever sentence’s well-read place.
Kitten pawprints in printmaker’s ink
run tracks through Card and Gaiman to the sink.

Crack, sizzle, pop!
Embers of ash glowing auburn august cinders in
tend in deep and darkest forest renders twin
silhouettes etched with sky background -
Star-filled heavens, moonlit nature’s sound.

Zoot suit riot!
Reggaeton riffs, FTM rap, and dyke slam-poetry
playing beneath tracks of pleased groans,
thrust between thoughts on space and symmetry,
pulse within soft lips, barely concealed moans.

Poetry

Written by: Bastian Quinn

Periodically, I’m going to post some poetry that I have written.  This is a sampling of some of the work I have had published in the SER.  These are the first two pieces, “Breathe Into Me, Spidey” and “When the music first carried me,” which were published in 2007.

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Breathe Into Me, Spidey,
What Once Was Lost
Peter, Pete, P?
Are you there, Mr. Parker?
Reading about chemicals in dark despair?
Perhaps a chapter from Hopkins would be more apropos
to weave this web
Which winds itself tightly around your skin,
holding you closer and pulling you in.
Beware of the wolf, least you get eaten!  Do you delve in carrion comfort?
Dare you untwist these last slack strands of man and unleash the Other?
You can’t throw this away, Peter Parker.
So, why would you unmask the surreality
and unleash reality on the unsuspecting Big Apple?
Ah, the Apple.  Proffered by a snake, soon to be villainized
when it creates
other totemic big men of science
whose grasp well exceeds their sanity.

You’re an insect among men and should be treated as such,
All this webslinging of truth and responsibility is false courage
You abuse to remove your mystery and endanger superhuman history.

You bug people.  Get under their skin, spin them, and tie them up
with all their shortcomings, prideful falls, which kick in their gut.
Friendly neighborhood, no!  You’re not from around here:
To hear the kicks and shouts, “You stupid faggoty queer!”
They reach a level above what must not be said or done, in the night
Watch, cover the city in murky crimson from these fags, those dykes,
the trannies – my entire family where we create and put down our roots to relax
without a legend looking after us.  Each day, again a struggle to teach the facts
by the heavenly fight or Hir chesed, you pass God’s test, O hero.
Shymmer some for the Almighty.  Whom do you praise, Pete-o?

The One who pressed you deep into the dust to create a diamond
a nick elegantly displayed by your bruised form? or Spider-
Man, he
rose to keep the good fight going?  Finally
overcoming the scorn, you’re entitled to your rest.  Whether
achieved by God or creature forlorn (yet) pure,
Peter, you’ve earned this overdue reprieve.  From a
world which ever unsure,
Uncertain we will not decimate decision.  We’re losing and dying in Iraq
without you, Spidey.  Nothing is bearable.  And even though you lack
Without your webs, the rest of the world would “carrion comfort,
Despair,”
“Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.”

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This is from an art show I had work in, around June/July of 2009.

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When the music first carried me
The burning smell machinery sometimes has, lingers in my nose,
Reminds me of when the furnace broke and we’d light a fire in the
fireplace…..
But those were winters and these were summers,
Summers spent in a house that reeked of nostalgia,
The scent takes me home to Scarsdale houses,
Tree-lined Westchester County streets,
Filled bandstands at Eastchester Park…

Suddenly, I’m catching fireflies
climbing trees as high as I can
listening to the band play on-
Grandad’s band with bossy trumpets,
regal horns,
bassoons bigger than me,
singers who wore too much hair spray and makeup (I think they were sopranos),
and the occasional night owl
Hooot.

I smell these old music scores and I’m taken back
to the nights spent chasing other kids,
protecting the littler ones from harm,
teasing girls with awesome strange bugs I’d found,
bragging with boys over who was stronger…

And I’m sitting underneath Gran’s beach chair
only for a moment
calmly sipping her homemade iced tea-

Then back up again like a shot!
Running and play-conducting to the glorious sounds.
Those nights when the music carried me and
Grandad would carry me home,
my arms clasped tightly around his neck.

He’d tuck me into bed in the twins’ old room,
maybe tell a Texas tale (if he could tell I was faking)
of Ribbon and school mischief,
kiss my forehead and say,
“Love you.  Good night.”
I’d wake up shortly after
Quietly search for his horn
I’d fall asleep curled up on the piano bench
with the cornet tucked under my arm…

WordPress cherry, now officially popped!

I am very excited to produce my first WordPress entry.  Here, you can view photos of me (I know the pickings are slim so far – I will hopefully be obliged to post more soon), read my poetry, and, if I can figure out how to make albums, perhaps even see my art in  scanned print- form!  I know it’s nothing flashy or anything, but this is my new page!  Enjoy!