Way To State The Obvious

I am such
a fucking
faggot.

Been fanning the flames
of my flamboyant faggotry
since April 1990
when I strutted from the caverns
of my mother's....
nevermind,
I'm never touching one of those.

My childhood is exemplified
by late-night espionage treks,
sneaking through my sister's side
of our bedroom
maximized by youthful perspective,
each step of mine garnering more
taut gravity than the next,
finally reaching the Holy Grail:
her Barbie collection.

In the fourth grade, I drew
my interpretations of those
beautiful, diamond-infested drag queens
that rained feathers and sequins
upon one drought of an existence,
the adults framing my tolerance
as a smut-stained abomination.

Now people ponder
why I'm so overt
with my gaydom.

Why argue with you
nostalgia-hemmed family friend
over the cultural significance
of the Barbra Streisand Album,
or freely sit through marathons
of 1930s Joan Crawford melodramas?

It's the kid in me.
Something lost for an era
in a washing tub
of middle school torture tactics,
heavy breathing
over hiding something
so natural.

And a few years of that
are damn stifling enough
for this gigantic faggot.

Untitled.

I am the greatest anomaly of my generation,
nimbly rummaging through the annals of my wit
with a current of charm running through my teeth,
inspiring all to transcend their surroundings
with the utmost sophistication and pathos.

Three seconds pass, and this identity scurries
quicker than a cheating lover in a Bessie Smith tune,
and I am once again just another
sheet within the reams of paper thin souls,
giving any prick the role of impaler.

They shall write this on my tombstone.
Magic marker epitaph sliding down damp cardboard
as the rain makes wooden chips from my bones,
the last time I lie here
with eyelids unlocked.

Riot Call II

I have sent a request
to all the white cone clad
twiddling their thumbs with menace
and hunting for their latest scapegoat
to mask their feelings of inadequacy...

As the smut on my garage door
slithers your hatred along
in the form of the word "FAGGOT"
and the last three men who shook me to the core
have been reduced to front page casualties,
I beg to finally join this league of humankind.

Please, ladies and cavemen, do as I ask
or I might just lead myself to
break
your double standard neck into thousands
of desperate times that surpass desperate measures.

You see, you've eliminated all the other options,
as I will no longer be reduced
to another strange fruit hanging
on the swastika tree, for I've seen
the cracks from the stones
colliding into your precious glass houses.

Preaching your "manhood" and your "sanctity"
on your altars as the color of your
wife's eyes seem to slip your busy mind,
giving us yet another juxtaposition
to lock with these once worn chains
onto your Stone Age door.

It must stop.
Those sounds of you slinging
your fists and your speech
towards all, including your own flesh and blood.

Our palms can't stay nailed to the wooden floor,
our lips can't stay sewn shut anymore,
angels writhing in their graves,
your time has run out!
Here my friend...is your riot call.

Everything That's Meant To Happen Does

Again and again and again and again,
yet another "etc." sealed onto the end
of a line I was sure would cut off continuation
someday.

The walls are much more pale these days,
letting out yawns of feigned animosity
with a knowledge that they need not close in
to provoke exasperation--
a slight and aging slant provides sufficient
spiraling.

Outside, baking in the sun, the unfinished sentences
drag their soles along the pebble-ridden concrete,
stomachs slouching over their pants so far
as if to cascade all the way down to the sidewalk.
They can only toss parades for handfuls of newborns
that seem to multiply in handfuls of
seconds.

It's been a glaring shade of winter.
Standard procedure,
with the exception of eyes drooping,
and the desire to escape from oneself
seething.