Moccasins on my crestfallen feet,
I took the first bus to Guam.
I hack my tobackey and grind my slack jaw,
My spirit yet lingers in old Vietnam.
Give me my pistol, Yuletide Yank,
I have the soul of Lincoln in my shirt-pocket.
Drunk in the park I loiter and wander,
A glass tear rolls down from an empty eye-socket.
I eat it all with a faintness,
Caring little for my progeny.
The crowds pass in sine waves, inverted directions,
They all shrink in fear from my dark androgyny.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem