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Poets Lost to the Mountains

Below are the 5 most recent journal entries.

 

 
  2005.03.13  12.24
Young transgender authors visiting Vermont, please spread the word!

The Cross Gender Caravan is coming to Vermont!

A night of cutting-edge fiction and poetry from young transgender writers challenging the boundaries of gender and artistic expression. Your genderscape may never be the same again!

Featuring:

Tennessee Jones (southern ex-punk with high pompadour whose first book, Deliver Me From Nowhere, explores the sex and gender badlands of Middle America through the prism of Bruce Springsteen's album Nebraska.)

Charlie Anders (author of Choir Boy, a bittersweet and surreal story of a choirboy who takes female hormones to keep his voice from changing and discovers a world of gender confusion. Charlie also publishes other, the magazine of pop and politics for the new outcasts. Charlie's also the author of the Lazy Crossdresser, a how-to guide for slack t-girls.)

Montpelier, VT
March 20, 5 pm
Black Sheep Books
4 Langdon Street
Montpelier, Vermont
802-225-8906

More New England tour dates...Collapse )

 
 


 
  2004.10.05  22.50


What a strange fire has entered me.
It flows downward, and around, and under.
It cools and caresses and cajoles
my simmering instincts
for fire or fear.

Sleep, it chases, and incompetence, and
inability
to say
TODAY
rather
than
to
mor
row

I can drink it.
I am all running roots and twisting
turning trunk.

Now I wish to be a cup.

 
 


 
  2004.10.05  12.09


still
lonely.

still
counting
crows.

are there any
smooth tongued
linguists
moving
amongst
these
hulking hills?

 
 


 
  2004.09.30  10.34


Who
Are
You?

Insistent, showing, questioning
but never answering
I ask again

Who
Are
You?

Flaxseed falling frames your face
set with the sea's stolen stones
Beyond that, you are mutable

And I do not have a name for you.

Who
Are
You?

 
 


 
  2004.09.29  09.24


So I sit here, September-style, with Kansas.
I've got what?
My story to tell.
My words are like water, but my hands are like bricks. My tale
In
Three
Parts

First he was called Fionn. His spear was the sun and the words flowed like honey.
Oghma husbanded his growth, and under the sun-faced one he grew straight and tall.
His words were truth, his steps were truth, his mind knew truth.

Then he was called Fear Dubh. The sun had set, and the moon
hid
her
face
for his atrocities were many.
It is best that he not be spoken of.

Now he is called Dayv. The sun rises and sets at a dizzying pace.
The moon, she smiles and spins her lunatic dance faster than his eyes can follow.
He remembers Fionn, and he remembers Fear Dubh, and he has remembered Oghma.
His spear is not the sun, but it is golden.
Oghma does not husband his growth, but sometimes politely says "Hang in there".
His words are truth. His steps are truth. Sometimes, his mind is filled with it.

His atrocities, gratefully, are few.