Trans Am Radio
It’s one of those days, a Sunday morning when
I feel out-of-place with myself, can’t even
Meet eyes
With the singers on television.
I feel at home with fragmentation,
Like the static on the radio station.
Between the hisses, the reporter speaks on
Infiltration,
The war between me
And my body, my face and my
Presentation. In my present,
I am the exact opposite of a gift - a stocky
German curse, try to sleep, try to sleep,
But the aching in my heart
Runs deep.
Sunday morning, I look at the mirror,
Hoping someday for a change, that
The face that I see
Will one day rearrange
Itself into a manly shape, that
The hair along the nape
Of my neck
Will square itself solely
By the force of my thought.
-- i.p. ebert, jan. 2010
I feel out-of-place with myself, can’t even
Meet eyes
With the singers on television.
I feel at home with fragmentation,
Like the static on the radio station.
Between the hisses, the reporter speaks on
Infiltration,
The war between me
And my body, my face and my
Presentation. In my present,
I am the exact opposite of a gift - a stocky
German curse, try to sleep, try to sleep,
But the aching in my heart
Runs deep.
Sunday morning, I look at the mirror,
Hoping someday for a change, that
The face that I see
Will one day rearrange
Itself into a manly shape, that
The hair along the nape
Of my neck
Will square itself solely
By the force of my thought.
-- i.p. ebert, jan. 2010