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.
