Trans Yokel collects the Yokel songs written between 2018 and the present End Times and marked grass-green for gender transformation. The ugly-duckling Yokel becomes the fairy-elf of their Heart.
2018
Villanelle: Dear Boy
What was that line?—charmed by a fairy-elf?
If you’ve seen one unicorn, you’ve seen two.
Amazing how a villanelle will write itself!
I guess you never knew, dear boy, I’m
on the shelf.
A unicorn-horn’s aim is straight and true.
What was that line?—charmed by a fairy-elf?
And what did I think I was doing besides
being myself,
sipping from the honeydew
of days, the villanelle life writes—
dragging my golf clubs up the old cart path?
I marched onto the course and then withdrew
deep into the woods, searching for my
fairy-elf.
And then was I ever the boy who cried Wolf!
And then the real wolf came—a new
specter in view, when my villanelle wouldn't
write itself.
Sorry, not sorry, there’s a deep deep gulf
between my queer ass and the chosen few.
What was that line?—charmed by a fairy-elf?
Amazing how a villanelle will write itself!
Was Shakespeare Someone Else?
True or False?—Shakespeare was someone else.
Some think the likeliest candidate was Bacon.
OK, I’m saying: False!
If there's one thing with which we shouldn’t mess, it's the identity someone has taken. True or False—Shakespeare was someone else?
There was that snake placed on a breast—its hiss. There was that crown prince on an isle forsaken. Nah, forget it: False!
I’ve already started listing women: Beatrice, Rosalind, Portia, that dragon- mother Volumnia, Polythene Kate. Who else?
That very-like-a-whale guy, Polonius. And Yorick, funny fellow who flung the flagon— I knew him, Horatio, but I still say: False!
Truly, Shakespeare was no one but themselves, never mind by whom their plays were written. True or False? Shakespeare was someone else. Mercutio’s no help!—I still say: False!
The Cruel Sea Witch
Every morning I feel the itch,
but I don’t want to lose control.
Must avoid the clutches of the cruel Sea Witch!
The cruel Sea Witch is such a bitch!
She has a cupboard stocked with souls
of all the silly fish who’ve felt the itch
to dive into her trench-y ditch
and diamond-mine the coal-black holes
of the thirsty ocean, where the Witch
lives. She’s blowsy and shrill, and neither scales nor clothing does she wear. All day she trolls for curious fishes who may feel the itch,
fishes who’ll soon grow legs (they wish!), but won't escape these brack-y shoals— their souls owned by the cruel Sea Witch.
Can’t I just jerk a toggle-switch: sexy feet / fishy tail? Every morning I feel the itch to jacklight the dingles of the cruel Sea Witch!
Silly Rabbit
Don’t express yourself physically too much!
You don’t always have to be jumping for joy!
Put your rabbit back in the rabbit hutch!
You can play tackle or you can play touch
no matter whether you’re a girl or a boy,
but don’t express yourself physically too much!
Admittedly, your libido is such
that you’re a virtual Helen of Troy,
but please put your rabbit back in the rabbit hutch!
Are you coming single or are you dating dutch?
Now don’t go acting all bashful and coy,
but don’t express yourself physically too much!
You might hit a home run in the clutch. Then again, you might die of exposure like Tolstoy if you don’t put your rabbit back in the rabbit hutch.
The last straw was when they asked for my crutch, tried to take away my precious toy! Hard not to express myself physically too much, inhabiting my hoppy-rabbit hutch!
Villanelle
What’s the meaning of villanelle?
A villein’s a rustic, a slob, a yokel.
My villanelle’s a town belle.
Jean lost his tourterelle,
his cooing dove, his chick, his turtle.
That’s the meaning of villanelle.
You tell me that I’m courting hell—
my rhymes more than a mite disgraceful,
bawling like a town belle.
You say, I need a Tylenol!
You’re rhythmin’ like a mother-fucker!
That’s not what I call a villanelle!
Well, what did you expect, pray tell?
I ain’t gonna quit this ice cream social.
My villanelle’s a town belle.
Let’s see how hard a zinfandel
can clobber when you’re drinking local—
the true meaning of villanelle!
My villanelle’s a suburban belle.
2019
Van Diemen’s Cruel Shore
CARPE THE FUCK OUT OF THIS DIEM
I am a hard rock,
with all my boo-hooing and confessing.
Especially with my CARPE DIEM socks!
I wanted shoe tacks—
diamonds in the soles of my morning!
I was a hard rock
because I couldn’t relax,
and I wanted to keep everybody guessing.
Now my CARPE DIEM socks
take people’s minds off the clock.
They enjoy me messing
up my own face with a bag of rocks.
No wonder they threw me in the truck
and shipped me to Tasmania, where I
kept impressing
myself with my easy-money socks!
What the fuck?
Has my common sense gone missing?
I’m a hard rock!
Look at my CARPE DIEM socks!
Sin Cojones
Dos carnes, dos huevos, dos panqueques, y un brindis.
Sitting in the Vanilla Bean,
ordering the Magnificent 7 Senior Breakfast,
feeling like Steve McQueen.
Not the prettiest sight you’ve ever seen,
but pretty to myself—
preening in the Vanilla Bean.
Jake Barnes loved a pretty epicene.
Jake Barnes would not have been
embarrassed
to be played by Steve McQueen.
McQueen was a pretty masculine
guy himself, but he couldn’t put away the rioja
like Jake Barnes could, sitting with his
sweet Colleen,
Lady Brett—the noble one—
after she had fucked
her bully boy to give him back his beanie
hat—his torero-sombrero, I mean.
Beautiful, noble Brett
Ashley, remembered in the Vanilla Bean
by Yours truly, Steve McQueen!
2020
The Most Beautiful Sound I Ever Heard
Always embarrassed by my femmy hams.
Is that too personal to say?
I’ll wait for any answer that comes.
Did anyone shoot me a glance
when I was sitting on the edge of that stage
with the other gym rat bums?
I was just starting to climb the fence,
and West Side Story was all the rage.
Shocking, the fate that comes
to Tony and Maria! And I wasn’t in the band
the night I watched beautiful Baton Rouge
Kathy sing onstage while I rested my hams
on a folding chair, with not a prayer
of a chance
in that big sexual hodgepodge—
the big sock hop that comes
around—I mean, the high school prom!
It’s taken a lifetime to assuage
my worries about my femmy hams.
I’ll dodge any judgment that comes.
My Friend Calarel
C is for charm, the undeniable you.
A is for affectionate, to those that matter most to you.
L is for luster, your shine.
A is for affable, for your easy-going nature.
R is for reliable, everyone's trustworthy friend.
E is for exquisite, who could argue?
L Is for Love, everlasting.
I love myself.
Whom else is there?
Well, I have an elf
in my brain (and a wolf
at my heels—I’ve needed rhymes for self before).
Always myself,
but being myself’s not half
bad, you know, if I have a care
for this pesky elf
of mine who's been known to put me off
my proper fare.
Only myself
to blame or thank or laugh
at. How dare
anyone complain about the foibles and
peccadillos of my dear elf?!
I won’t take them off the shelf.
Not that I ever could—they own the store.
They're myself!
My fairy-elf!
Pronouns (Jesus Must Be Transgender)
Me at my best,
challenged by pronouns—
I, me, and the rest.
Our little jest.
Aren’t we a bunch of clowns?—
us at our best.
Yo y nosotros,
I and we others—
you, me, and the rest.
Haven’t mentioned her and he yet,
or she and him—we or us at
our best?
But when you put us to the test,
we’re all a bunch of single persons,
different from the rest.
You’re the mystery guest,
preferring they-them—
you at your best.
Funny how I stand apart—
if I could only touch the hem
of Their garment,
I would join the rest.
Pillow-Princess/Power-Bottom
Am I a pillow-princess
or a power-bottom?
I gain purchase
either by spilling myself all over the
bed sheets
or by calling the Madam
and asking her to send up a pillow-princess—
a dewy dame with a delicious
taste for Sodom.
I carded the purchase.
Then I lit the incense
and smeared the pomatum.
So, can I be the pillow-princess
this time? If I’m mister, I’ll be ms.
Yes, I’m on the bottom—
on my back, anyhow, trying to gain purchase
by receiving a hundred plus a thousand
kisses.
That’s what you call a power-bottom!
I’m a pillow-princess.
I gain purchase.
We Need Have No Fear (My Friend Calarel 2)
It’s scary
when fate looms in the news.
My fairy-
elf is near me
on the couch and sees
all the same scary
stuff I’m seeing,
but they take the footsie view.
It’s fairly
clear even to Yours truly
that the world must change hues,
scary
as the change from flesh to earth must be.
I’ll lose
my life (whatever I was), but my fairy
elf will still be here when I’m dead and buried.
They will dance in the sun and be renewed.
Not the least bit scary
for my elfen fairy!
Dissociation (Put de Lime in de Coconut)
Thinking about dissociation.
That's when you don’t feel that your body
belongs in this world.
You need a physician,
but no one treats conditions
such as yours—viz, feeling like a girl
when you’re running for the board of
a men’s association
(Christian, at that!), confident relaxation
never to be found.
The physician
I was sent to put me on DILANTIN
because I had weird brain waves and
classical migraine.
But it wasn’t epilepsy but dissociation
that was my problem—indications
bad all around.
Doctor! Doctor! I said to my physician,
prescribe me a potion
that will let me exist in the world as the person
I feel myself to be in my own skin and
NOT SOME MAN!
Thinking about dissociation.
I’m my own head physician.
Queer Object of My Own Gaze
All my life drawn to the feminine,
only wanting to share space.
Did I dare hope I might be the cute one
too? Working on my discretion,
but still abashed and out-of-place—
all my life drawn to the feminine
like a stream running
over the landscape toward a crevasse.
So, never dreaming I could be the cute one,
I persisted in my pedantic—male—fussiness,
while my bedazzled eyes never ceased
to gaze upon the feminine.
OK, I was in the rock-and-roll band,
the Trojanz—
Tony, Victor, Ramón, and yours
winsomely—once named the cute one
by a girl in my father’s hearing. Always asinine
enough to adore my own donkey face,
charmed by the feminine
wiles of the Faerie Queen
Calarel herself. Was it teenage lust or
was it grace?
All my life drawn to the feminine.
I doubt if I’m the boy, but we're both
the cute one!
Queer of No Fortune
What can I do with my remaining time?
Calarel has retired into the woods
with her lions.
I’ll retire too so as not to be a peeping Tom.
Watching in an exhausted frame of mind—
my step’s uncertain and my path is faded,
and I’m wondering what I can do with
whatever time
remains from now until my journey's end.
Can I disguise myself like Odysseus in
the bower of maidens—
discovered when he clapped his knees
to catch a ball of yarn?
Penelope weaving and unweaving her skein,
spinning the thread of the nights she’s waited
while her beloved was unreeling his time
blinding the Cyclops
and smoking his moly
root. Was Odysseus a listening Tom
when he made his wax-eared crewmen
lash him to the mast so he could hear
the Sirens?
What can I do with my remaining time?
—Only shut the fuck up so I won’t be a
babbling Tom!
Gender Affirmation in the End Times
Feeling Differently
When I feel differently,
why should I submit
to the tyranny of he?
When someone mentions me,
why should my penis be
the first thing that you see?
When I drift lazily
into my dreams, my penis doesn’t vanish,
but it hates being called Johnny.
It wants to be
left alone to feel
differently.
I’m practically a girl—at least,
I’d rather have my own vagina than be
called he.
But you can call me they—
not hard to make that fit,
when identity’s
not all you see.
Michigan J. Frog in Drag
Looking at reels on Facebook.
Only girls post reels (almost).
What a queer bird the frog are!
Looking up frog in my bird book.
When they sit, they stand (almost).
Looking at reels on Facebook.
Always glad to give frogs a look.
When they walk, they fly (almost).
What a queer bird the frog are!
How I would love to be mistook
for a frog! When they talk, they cry (almost).
Looking at reels on Facebook.
Being a frog would be some trick,
but I’ve got no sense (hardly).
What a queer bird the frog are!
Frogs got no tail neither (hardly).
They sit on what they ain’t got
(hardly). What a queer bird the frog are!
Looking at reels on Facebook.
Satan’s Gender Affirmation Surgery:
a Tarot Reading
What does it mean to be covered by the Devil?
The Devil’s not the nicest duder.
Can love prevail?
The Devil looks evil
and scary. The key to them’s their gender.
What it means to be covered by the Devil
is just to be named male.
(Well, I doubt the Devil’s neuter.)
But love can’t prevail
until we realize, the Devil might be female.
To be covered by the Devil’s to be gaslighted
by the same male God Who tricked the Devil
into submitting to a sex label
(and poor Adam was no astuter).
Love could prevail
only when the Devil got a smile
and turned it vertical.
Now Eve’s best friend the Devil
chants the glad mantra—Love shall prevail!!!
Getting My Mother Back (My Friend Calarel 3)
My problem with being ghosted
is, I imagine credible reasons for it.
I feel lorn and lost
as though my mother had absconded.
Well, I’m sure she felt bad about it,
and I’m sure she didn’t want me
to feel ghosted.
But so what if she didn’t?
She needed out,
and she had to leave me lorn and lost.
I learned fast
to abhor qualities in myself that could
have made
her leave. So, I myself have ghosted
all my annoying friends who remind me
of myself,
especially all the narcissistic male poet
types. If they feel lorn and lost
too bad! I don’t have to force-feed
myself desolation when my fairy-elf
still loves me. They’ll never ghost
me. Why would I ghost myself?
Regendered Orpheus
Creeped out by all the old male poets
around here (takes one to know one—I’ve
said that before).
They’re like rats without a bo-ut.
Not exactly saying we’re such bad hats.
We’re fine if we're like Severin in Venus in Furs.
We won’t be creeped out by an old trans poet,
one who takes their orders from Astarte
to bling themselves out like a flagrant whore
who, lovable though she is, may have to leave
this leaking bo-ut
when the ghastly COVID
menace strikes. Hell, she’ll be cast overbo-ud!
But she’ll hardly take up the destiny to be
an old male poet,
swallowed by God’s whale, who spits her
back up again on the brackish shores
of Nineveh, ready to rant against sin like
a righteous male poet.
Nope, Dionysus’s dolphins ferry her
back to Corinth where she goes on to star
in her very own dithyramb play—
gender-affirmed poet
that she has become!—snug as a rat in
the hold of a bo-ut!
Loving Myself (My Friend Calarel 4)
I love my fairy-elf.
My elf is free to flirt.
My elf is myself.
My elf’s my hotter half!
Does it hurt
to love my fairy-elf?
No, my elf’s a perfect knock-off
of me minus cravat,
my self themselves!
So much swell fruit
in the world! I most
love when my fairy-elf
meets me in the street
and taps their banjo pot—
my elf, myself.
Why I’m secure in my autosex.
We’re the truest heart!
I love my fairy-elf!
I love myself!
Trying to Be Hecate
Always amazed by my charmed
life! It feels so good to be elfen!
My selfhood can’t be hurt or harmed.
I was alarmed
when the neighbor’s giant basswood tree fell on our house.
But I removed my male
undies and contrived to lead the charmed
life that I do lead—renowned
for nothing, not even for being elfen.
But I’m not hurt or harmed
by the world’s disregard.
Well, I’m thinking of putting [taking]
my hot elfen
drag costume on [off]—charmed
by my blinged [bare-naked]
body—elfen
enough never to be hurt or harmed
after I die, either. My elfen
dust will charm the earth, or hermaphroditic worms
will eat me up—unhurt, unharmed.
