Haikus on the Trans Day of Visibility

Haiku for my trans brothers and sisters:
Hey look we did it
Defying stupid ideas
About gender norms.

Haiku for the Mythical Norm:
Normalcy is false
Just another way to use
Power over you.

Haiku for Cis Allies:
You are doing
An okay job but for real
Could be much better.

Haiku for the Butt Hurt:
It’s not about you
Or your fragile feelings.
People are dying.

Haiku for my Non-Binary Peeps:
Take dualities
And put them in a smoothie
Watch them disappear.

Haiku for fallen Trans Women of Color:
You were beautiful
Brilliant light in a dark world.
Please rest in power.


Haikus of Remembrance

I went to bed last night

Remembering who I am.

A living writer.

A child dressed like

Your average human girl.

Except with space pants.

A big old goof ball

Who likes to walk in the woods

And converse with trees.

A silly person

Sent off from the Pleiades

Just to help Earth laugh.

My spaceship was my

Mother’s uterus, Dad’s balls

And an overcoat.

I just wanted to

Live where the wild things were,

To tell you stories

About those places

You dare not venture inside

Your scary old self.



It was the willingness to fall flat on my face that allowed me to soar.

The chip on my shoulder and fire in my gut that gave me the courage to leave.

It was this invisible place, this inner sanctum, this burning passion, that prompted me to pursue my dreams.

It was standing in the bathroom banging my chest because I knew there was no one else who could fulfill my dreams for me but me.

It was the anger with which I left grad school. The drive to rush headlong into my highest aspirations.

I am remembering now what fuels me, though I have forgotten, though rejection has deflated my sails, stolen my vigor, and left me filled with questions, left me reeling in a sad complacent depression, thinking often of suicide, often of escape, often of how hopeless and pitiful my life is. But I am remembering what led me to leave. I am remembering what has given me strength.

It’s nothing but love. Love for the craft that has been my gift since birth. Love for the written word. Love for the only thing that really matters to me.

I mustn’t forget. I must keep my eye on the ball even if I can’t see the ball. I must pull myself out of the mud and the dark and refocus myself upon the light.

I am still leaping. I am still falling. May I continue until I die. May I never forget, never never ever again who I am.

I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

Unity in Nudity

When ever possible

I greatly recommend

Getting naked in the woods.

Feel the breeze on your skin

Even if it’s soft.

Feel the fly land on your arm

The moth on your leg,

Bees on a flower petal.

Feel your genitalia like mycelia,

Damp underfoot


Diana is hiding behind a tree

And if you center yourself properly

You might become like Aphrodite

Like Murphy

Like Miley

Like Zeus

Like children running in the pasture.

You might find yourself

Laughing for no reason.

Perched nude upon

A rock in a stream

Surrounded by wet moss

Gleaming green and gold

Yellow Janice flapping small and significant

Among the dying leaves

The herbaceous soil

The ferns and secret cedars.

There is very little difference

Between the pink of your flesh

Or the brown

And the hickories and the sycamores

And the pebbles dancing.

Take your clothes off

And find out for yourself

That nature envelops you too.

That you are home in your own bare skin.