Tag Archives: homophobia

all of vice is my hero

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

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Like a roller coaster, like a kiddie’s
park, ride me. I’m hard outside but a fag

deep down — as if I caused your furious
hate by just being me — your: punching bag

— you: thug 4 life. Like Pennywise, I will
let you think that you won. It’s your gospel,

bully’s wet dream, hater hating. What thrill
comes from violence? I’m the gay teenage skull

that you kicked and kicked. Did I say fags? Queers?
T-boys? Dykes? I tell you: there is a price

to this, all rides must end, all that straight hate
that you have toward us perverts who appear

as love’s martyrs. If I’m obsessed with vice
that’s your doing. Love calls. I won’t wait.

blowjobs to stangers

28 Monday Oct 2013

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Strange. There’s a small army of us who give
blowjobs to strangers. Like Sucka MCs

or a ten year old with a homemade shiv,
you can’t tell just by looking as we breeze

by you on the street, in your office, out
on the playground. All our worlds are complex,

and so are we. Maybe on a stakeout
at a gloryhole, bathrooms and blind sex,

then you’ll tell—-when you hit a contralto,
like in movies—-each time you orgasm.

A tad crude, but to the point. Then you’ll tell
who is who. All us boys and girls who know

your taste and laugh at you because you cum
and call yourself an erotic rebel.

pig roast

23 Wednesday Oct 2013

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What was awkward wasn’t the need, wasn’t
just the will, it was the way that the straight

guy made it clear that he had consented
to this only to fuck your wife. The eight

shots of vodka that the three of you split
should have loosened things up, but no. You both

take a place beside her. He will submit
to her deep throating him down. But he loathes

the thought that he might be forced to kiss you.
Perhaps she’s watched too much porn. Perhaps she’s

blind to the clues. But with your cock in her
mouth and his in her ass she grins at you

both with joy. This is what she wants: boy grease,
cum, sperm, pig roast with two men, two lovers.

filled my heart

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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Damaged. I don’t need to say anything
more but you know. All my poetry pales
before those two syllables. Heart breaking
how I learned not to give a fuck. Details
are all unimportant. All tragedies
are pain. But to not give a fuck? That part
hurts the most. Damaged goods. Before “sissies,”
“tomboys” and “fags.” Before fear filled my heart.

I own that now, for Damaged means wisdom.
It means that we took it all and survived.
I do give a fuck. If you’re reading this
then we survived. You and me. I’ve been numb
for a good long time. Damaged. They deprived
us of our childhood but we’re still us. Us.

you oughta know by now—

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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federico garcia lorca, mi amor

federico garcia lorca, mi amor

* * *

“If your girl likes rhythm and blues, look out
’cause cake’s in the house…”
— Sir Mix-a-lot, Cake Boy

“If you love her” and “then you must send her
somewhere” and “where she’s never been before.”

Do not mock “words of love, soft and tender.”

All my “worn out phrases” come straight from war.
Lovers still die. I’m “a buttercup boy
from the funny school.” By definition
I’ve been to places a 60s tomboy

hasn’t, as all children can claim. Semen
running down our chins. Still, I’ll make you glow,
mamas and papas, take you down tonight.

To where they shot Lorca. Because you mocked
everything “soft and tender.” Federico,
mi amor, I’ll burn them down with delight.
It will leave their souls horror-struck and shocked.

* * *

Note:

* The Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, was assassinated in 1936 by General Franco’s fascists for being a liberal and a queer.

* The 1960s group The Mamas and the Papas sang the song Words of Love, which I quote from in the poem. Regardless of what I say elsewhere, bless you, Mama Cass (though Papa John can bite me, jerk)

* I’ve been living with Sir Mix-a-lot’s fake ode (he of the Baby Got Back fame) to the effeminate in men, Cake Boy, for many a year now. It is equally fascinating and frustrating, much like society’s take on the fey. It might not be the very first attempt in mainstream media to talk about gay and transgendered African Americans (see: Honey Honey Miss Thang for a longer discussion) but it was one of the first I came across in hip hop. I am not African American, but I certainly identified with the cake boy motif he describes. I call this a fake ode because at the end of the song Mix-a-lot advocates physical violence against any effeminate man who might be coming on strong to a homeboy’s girlfriend. Homophobia and gay-bashing will always be crimes to send you to the 7th circle of hell in my book.

killing the fey

16 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by in Poetry, self-portrait

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Yoked to my lisp, I want you to know
this compulsive arching and pulling and
expanding of flesh at the gym burns
my flesh yellow. I live

in a town where lumbering, stiff
postures serve as reference, where
cropped “Are You Butch Enough?”
buzz cuts act as testimonial.

Where the gym’s trainer says: to be totally hot,
to be truly huge, you need this fat burner!
Get jacked! Get slammed!

I hear the body is
our only sanctuary.

Where men at the bars say: I may be gay but
at least I’m not a queen. Or fat. Or femme. Where

I feel that stare at my back: Hey faggot! Hey
faggot! Hey! How do they know?

I accept, I accept all this.

*

Yoked to my lisp, I want
you to know Hitler took us
Hundred-and-Seventy-Fivers
to stretch us out. Recall

Paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code
would have defined me

as one of the “unneeded consumers,”
one of the men “incurably sick” with effeminacy.

Is this why I’d try to reshape my body?
Since I’m judged not by an act, but

rather this sashay?
What do I do with these butterfly hands?

It might still happen. It will
have to happen. It happened before
(I was scared, I cowered, I swore).

I have studied these men: I may
be gay but at least I’m not a queen.
Did it happen to them? A queen?

Is that all I am? Here
in this suburban bungalow,
behind these drapes,

this cross, this little madonna (what was it
that they saw in our bodies?) alone

in a white room, my lisp singes the air,
infusions of smoke from the factory.

*

I accept, I accept all this. There is a word
I carry with me: mannweiber, “manwoman,”

a word used near Buchenwald, at Dora-Mittelbau,
where camphor and elms shivered over the lanes

leading to the underground cement factory
where we Hundred-and-Seventy-Fivers
were to be “bent straight.”

My body burns yellow to recall
when we were incurably sick. Hey,

faggot! my body burns, their words
branded into my frame:

mannweiber “manwoman”

mannweibchen “boygirl”

mädchenjunge “boybitch”

*

I’ve tried to live anonymously, I’ve tried to live
with it. I’ve
tried

under the spectator’s stare, and I feel
that stare at my back. I accept,
I accept, at least I am
a queen.