O California, don't you know the sun is only a god
if you learn to starve for him? I'm bored with the ocean
...
ask not what your country can do for you
ask if your country is your country
...
I am sick of writing this poem
but bring the boy. his new name
...
one is hard & the other tried to be
one is fast & the other was faster
...
the bullet is his whole life.
his mother named him & the bullet
...
1. smoke above the burning bush
2. archnemesis of summer night
...
somewhere, a sun. below, boys brown
as rye play the dozens & ball, jump
...
Have I spent too much time worrying about the boys
killing each other to pray for the ones who do it
with their own hands?
...
I did not come here to sing a blues.
Lately, I open my mouth
...
this gin-heavy heaven, blessed ground to think gay & mean we.
bless the fake id & the bouncer who knew
this need to be needed, to belong, to know how
a man taste full on vodka & free of sin. i know not which god to pray to.
i look to christ, i look to every mouth on the dance floor, i order
a whiskey coke, name it the blood of my new savior. he is just.
he begs me to dance, to marvel men with the
dash
of hips i brought, he deems my mouth in some stranger's mouth necessary.
bless that man's mouth, the song we sway sloppy to, the beat, the bridge, the length
of his hand on my thigh & back & i know not which country i am of.
i want to live on his tongue, build a home of gospel & gayety
i want to raise a city behind his teeth for all boys of choirs & closets to refuge in.
i want my new god to look at the mecca i built him & call it damn good
or maybe i'm just tipsy & free for the first time, willing to worship anything i can taste.
...