This poem was recited to me late, late one night in Bushwick a couple of months ago by a man named Jackson Bennet Schwier, a traveler sent my way by a mutual friend in London. We were drinking and laughing and drinking, you know, carousing, and then someone decided it was time for a poem. "Give us a poem, Jack!" and the man transformed. The poem popped out with flare and nimbleness. --I'm sure I've never used that word before, nimbleness, but it's the right word now. That shit was nimble!
I was blown away by the sudden burst of stage persona and of course by the content of the piece, a subject very near to my bloody heart. It's astounding how much flack a guy still gets, in this very present day and even in so freakful a city as NYC, for simply wearing "women's" clothes. What's the big deal? I know our collective gender-feathers get ruffled when the lines blur and it gets tougher and tougher to tell who's who and what to fuck, but this poem expertly doesn't say what doesn't need to be said and instead it reads free and healthy and I love it. I made such an enthusiastic deal about it that he typed me up this copy and sent it rolled up in a red tube, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. Great dude. Great poem.
Give him some love on the winternet: https://www.facebook.com/jackson.b.schwier
Thanks, Jack! How about an audio version?