4 Lesbian Eyes Only

I do not know how to; grow old, grow tired, walk with a limp, acquire a handicap plate, give in, give up, etc.  The tools given…unto me were…



the Good Bible…and the Bad Bible

Heterosexuality…Did not do me any good other than…Realize, blow jobs were gross.

Birth Control pamphlets under my teen-aged door.


Native American blood mixed with Irish cynicism.

Blonde hair…Which I use as a crutch, when in error of;  Wondering which side the gas tank is on…On my moped.


I am sure there is more.  But as my mother has always told me…during several stages of verbal abuse from my father…

‘You have always had a flair for the dramatic…Oh, by the way, did you know you had a cold-sore.’

Fortunately, I follow, blogs, authors, both here and there.  Who can guide me to a better understanding of self!  If there is such a thing!

As for loving woman, I have never understood why some people had a fit. I still don’t. It seems fine to me. If an individual is productive responsible, and energetic, why should her choice in a partner make such a fuss? The government is only too happy to take my tax money and yet they uphold legislation that keeps me a second class citizen. Surely, there should be a tax break for those of us who are robbed of full and equal participation and protection in the life of our nation!

Rita Mae Brown



Tumbling out of Turmoil

Tumbling into the vast escape.

What…indeed is the languid turmoil for?

When staring up at the painted on ceiling for salacious hints…

Less than many…have gone since.

I have sat in the rooms of pretense and it’s friendship with despair.

No matter, the guttural response…

I cannot produce the flair.

Bruised Impressions

Ran vagary over and over.

As if,

smitten by a nemesis of a four-leaf clover.

There is no supremacy here, there or…anywhere.

We all are diminished by the same bed of rock.

No matter the choice.

No matter the manner in which we leave a bruised impression.

Each to their own.

Put to rest by the same hand.

Only our vanity chooses…

Woman or man.

Before the Closet Door

Ironic, the emotions are no different on the other side.

Having subsisted in the great pretense of…someone else.

Then…and, now…

when the floods rushed upon me.

It had always been torment that I felt.


as before,

the closet door,

love was a feast in which I dined.

Hate a rapturous offender.

Dissidence for a bi-lateral kind.


I bleed now.

As I did,

before the open closet door.

I cry,

as before the open closet door.

Please to meet you…

I am no different from before.

Stop Making Sense

When young I could not rearrange the shame.

I only heard words such as,

‘You are queer.’

It was then…I drew the terms of isolation near.

Amassed myself in,

ribbons, bows and the pink of fear.

Attending to only,

‘I knew there was something strange about you.’

A parent’s abolishing phrase?

Words only a child can hold dear.

The life we choose does not always make sense. If it hurts no one. It shouldn’t have to.