Misha The Poet Laureate

Current status:

Good morning. July 10, 2026.

Still too warm to touch. Sunburn doesn’t feel like it’s gonna go to the peel stage today.

Wrote a poem a day for 5 days in a row for the first time in a while. Feels good, but it does make me think about sharing poems.

Back to regularly posting on a social media platform, and I wonder if sharing any of my thoughts in the miasma of dread is a net positive for the world. Is the river of bile a good place to swim?

I remember the first time I went to the Soviet Union. I was so shocked when I saw that there wasn’t any commercial commodity advertising. But here it’s it’s hidden in plain sight. It’s stated so ubiquitously that you don’t notice it anymore. But it notices you.

-Godfrey Reggio

Sunburn protocols activated. Ouch.

Good afternoon from Sellwood Library, where a man just had a conversation on his phone loudly right next to me. Trying to pay him no mind. We live in a world where people take video calls in coffee shops while people around them are writing in their little notebooks. I guess I need to be gracious.

Four weeks until work starts back up. I’ve done all my parts. Now it’s just figuring out how to live until then. (Yes, I’m employed. I’m woring for Community Transportation. I’ll be a Community Trans. I’ll be one of their phone and email operators. Excited for the small jobs.)

Thinking a lot about Crass and anarcho-pacifism. Crass was a band of anarchists who formed a band in 1978. They were anarchist in the best sense of the word: Community focused, mutual aide, lived on a little farm without locks on the door. They believed that we should be fighting against war, not against people. Get out of your own way. That the ideal was self determination, and not getting in the way of other people’s self determination. The idea that violence is the weapon of the state, and will not win in the hearts and minds of people. Penny Rimbaud of Crass is in his 80s now, is still walking the walk. Would hate to be called a hero.

In a world where transexuals are going to be the next unacceptables, are going to continue to be marginalized, who are disenfranchised in our culture again and again, is a peace testimony the best strategy, or a surrender? And is surrender a bad thing? Is it more punk rock to be yourself, regardless of what power says you should be?

Back to the old quaker talking points: Break the rifle that lives in your heart. The belief that you must protect yourself from state violence with the weapons of the enemy. There are no ends to justify the means. This life is only means.

Fight power not people.

Compassion. Integrity. Kindness. Generosity. Welcome. Art. A friendly life.

The meaning of life is living. Showing up with your friends. Petting cats. Writing in the early morning. Leaving the house, and drinking coffee. Swimming. Sharing poems with the world. That’s what you need to do.

Old woman in her little living, living a quiet life. Everything falling down around her, and she is happy.

The last couple of weeks I’ve been joining in at the water power class at the pool. Basically water aerobics focused on strength. The folks who are with me are all in their 60s and 70s, and are smoking me. Powerful folks working the water.

The best thing about the new job is that I am going to be working a swing shift. Wake up, have my morning, a good swim and a nap, and then off to work. My best sense of energy is going to go to myself, instead of a boss. Get to be drowsy at work. Not a bad thing.

A week ago:

The room is dark and cramped. Women and thems in leather and various states of undress, dancing and fucking and flogging together. Two girls gnawing at my breasts. Another in my mouth. Beside us, two women stepping on each other while a pup in a leather hood howls above them. A domme in full leather daddy kit leads her sub wrapped head to toe in rubber by a leash, the sub smiling with her gag in. The kind hearted door domme says “Hope you folks had a good sweaty time.” Yes we did. Yes we did.

Four hours earlier:

Arrived at a sushi restaurant an hour and a half ahead of my friends. Sit in my leather jacket, new mini skirt, tank top, no bra, lace underwear, chunky boots, black socks, sit in the back hatch of my car, people watching on capital hill. Trans People are taking over the world. Nearly 50/50 trans and nonbinary folks passing by in their pride finery. Shy girls looking at me shyly, wondering at my boldness. Houseless dude saying “happy pride, lady, nice jacket, got a dollar, fuck you, nah, just kidding, you have a good one.” Delivery driver pumping house music, waving. Teenage girly, growing out her hair still, resplendent and a little drunk, waving and saying “happy pride!” on her way to getting barred from the bars.

Even earlier:

Driving up, listening to podcasts, rain splattering the windshield. I’ve done this drive a dozen times. Lovely to be doing it again. Lovely to feel good in my body. Lovely to have a job again. Lovely to know I am beautiful, and sexy, and powerful in my leathers. Life is sweet.

Love and stuff,

Misha Lynn Moon

Going to try out water aerobics at an outdoor pool this morning. See if it gives me joy, to work the water outdoors.

New morning set up on my phone: calendar and to do widget, 5 icons for rss, newspapers, magazines, Instapaper, and a book. Reading apps at the ready for a quiet morning. Laudate for morning prayers. Already went straight to the browser, and watched a video. Sigh…

Current office:

I sometimes think my brother has the right idea. He carries a phone that he turns off most of the day. Has never had a smart phone. Just goes about his life, disconnected unless he’s in one spot, where his computer lives.