Dad I'm gay…(period)

Instead of swinging his coarse blue-collar fists at me in antipathy and tossing my creased Lee jeans and red Pro-Keds into the ragged alley behind our fertile home; on Saturdays he drove me passed the pugilistic football fields in his masculine Cadillac car, to the tittering ballet studio where I learned to tuck my d**k and point my toes, and sat amongst the proud parents of girl-children watching me signify and finger snap.

Choosing the Wrong Nigga

It was dark before; quiet.

A white cat, a black

patch on its left eye was fixed

on a fish tank's jade bubbles.

With old muddy boots,

crushing splendid red orchids,

wearing brown shirts, and

shouting Adolph Hitler speeches;

it came; through a lightning shower

driving a rickety grey car.

It banged on doors and

scraped on windows, jolting me.

Love.

Casting passing black

shade shadows.

Flatulent, defensive, dragging

bags filled with broken

heart pieces, jagged crack-pipes,

bounced checks, and bad credit.

Honestly.

With his hat in his hand, down

on his luck, hungry,

wearing milk chocolate eyes, a

whisper smile, and athletic six-pack belly.

Love wore old blue jeans and a sweatshirt;

they both smelled of last week, and wet blue sex.

The Crack Head

all that he sees through the kissing cloud is the tiger's beauty as it leaps and tears a ballet of gleaming teeth and claws

Ruminations of a Young Man Dying

Lungs at 40 per cent There is a car Heart 70 per cent Parked in the backyard Arms 30 per cent In the tall grass Legs 50 per cent No one drives it anymore Prognosis death But there was a time So many pills It got on down the road So many nurses 95 miles per hour So many doctors In a thirty five zone