i hate writing poetry

my eyes drift

along the page,
     downcasting off along
icy seas, north winds and rage.
  I wake in the afternoon, feeling my age and
reeling from pains i can scarcely articulate,
 calling from inside the box i compart myself in to
draw help from friends whose feet court the sidewalk,
       but i'm a grassblade

popping up, getting crushed,
stepped over - underfoot of those who wield the whack-blades
or at least hold you ‘twixt their fingers
 for a whistle or
getting ground ‘tween cow teeth,
swallowed, regurgitated,
  and ultimately left to bake in
the amber-wave ‘twixt sining sea cremation, my effigy hung
up every year on everyone’s door like a June christmas wreath.

Slapped on beer cans, what a treat
 it is to watch people go crazy over
the simple idea that trans people exist.
 What creeps they are to
leave me and mine to go crazy looking
for assholes in deer stands and dodging bullets.

Asleep. the whole country,
following assholes in suits and ties,
i cry out for Free
dominion over my mind;

So my eyes may drift on many seas cried,
 but my worth is my gift as a human,
and I am Human,
               with pride