This was written in 2010, and it still holds true. Based on a person from my hometown, name changed for dignity’s sake. No one should ever have to suffer because they live without lying about who they are. Over 20 years have gone by, and I can still feel every word.
FRANCES BY NIGHT
Frances took a lot of shit
back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood
On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines
Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps
The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her
Sometimes she’d get bounced early for
flouncing around the married guys too much
They were undercover, like the CIA
This was back in the day
when you came in the back door and showed ID
Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances
who had to show her license with her real name, Frank
It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her
A few cocktails would set her right
She’d be fine ‘til closing time
If no prime escort took the bait
she’d wait as long as she could
before leaving for good (or for worse)
Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat
Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”
Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!”
No cops were ever around that part of town
despite the shouts of the frantic rumble
She put up a good fight, that little queen
for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper
Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles
of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her
but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies
“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”
“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!
You need it more than I do”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Don’t Forget The Mesquite
(musings on Hell and Oscar Wilde)
Lots of folks
Some in my family
say I’m gonna burn in hell
‘cause we love
our daughter, gender queer
We ring her praise like a bell
Hell must be
fun, funny, musical
Gershwin, Gertrude, Oscar Wilde
I’d rather
burn in hell with those folks
than live in sanitized Mild
But please don’t
forget to put mesquite
in with me, to smell my best
when I descend
to see Blanche and Charlotte
and our cat Gable at rest
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Yes, it’s true, our cat Gable was gay. The only one who could pick him up was our landlord, and they would plotz over each other like two preening queens. My mom Charlotte and her mom Blanche were not lesbians, but they knew and loved the whole gay community, including “Auntie Frank,” she of the cowboys boots and best friend (a femme who “never found the right man either.”). So, yeah, I’m going in a handbasket, whatever.
I actually don’t believe in Hell (there’s enough on Earth), but they still want me to go there. Whatever.
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Marian asked us for poems about, influenced by, or concerning Oscar Wilde. She posted a BRILL YouTube clip of countertenor David Daniels, whose voice you would swear is alto – he’s a countertenor, higher than a tenor – but he seems pretty chill for an opera singer. Click HERE to witness his magnificent voice, as he prepares to premiere an opera about Oscar Wilde, starring as the man himself.
And oh, you homophobes, I hope you enjoy this piece. It is absolutely true, every single word! Peace and solidarity with my LGBTQ bros and sisses, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 