To be fleeting is not to be brief
To be silent is to be the thief of outrage
To be closeted is to be caged
Empty cans carry the memory of beer
Belonging to the old black drunk pulling purple faces
By the side of a road busy with routines
Journeys and "Where have you beens"
His life has all but ended in a yellow carrier bag
That once pretended to support his choices
That now contains the ghosts and the haunted voices
The children that came with his constant fucking cheatings
Squares of paper
One. Two. Three bags on the old bastard's arm later
The forgotten man's words turn to sand
And he catches a tiny explosion in the very hand
That never touched her virgin face
But pilfered her faith in an episode of quiet rage
The hand that shattered her glasslike grace
And punctured her hymen to prove she was safe
Steal a small thing
Hold on to him but do not cling
The sloth sits amidst the shaved hedges
Opening and closing eyes like jalousies
Until he shoots
Pleasure leaves lust a mute
Assassinating the urges
Moans echoing like dirges
The constant unknowing
The fear of incarceration growing
Because even the hand of compassion can crumble the cornerstone
When men pray the gay away
Empty beer cans lie in the tall grass
Empty hearts drown in a tide of old laughs
Empty soldiers lie in defeat
With the denouement of a dying war
And crisp brown autumn makes cartwheels across the city floor.
I used to braid my great granny's Jamaican head of hair
That's when my daddy noticed I was queer
That's the time my big brother started to disappear
That's when the fear begun to be there for me.
That's when the bullying begun
That's when he first pointed the gun.
Great granny can you see
What a whole heap of fuckery
These bully men are using to break me
And yet still I must breathe
"If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door".
~ Harvey Milk.