poem: sublimation

2 Oct

poem: sublimation
i am a 1950s suburban housewife
standing at a door,
knowing but not wanting him to return after a day at an office,
or an afternoon with his whore;
alone in a kitchen,
masturbating to memories,
lost in a fog of anti-depressants and household chores,
Leave It to Beaver beatitudes
and paint-by-numbers Barbie play sets –

i am a black man
working as a porter
in an Atlanta hotel,
listening to a radio,
news from Dallas,
carrying a white man’s bag,
waiting on a quarter tip,
invisible to all except a smiling white girl;
her mother says, do not talk to that man –

i am a homosexual
cruising a bar,
New York City,
vice cop’s cock in my mouth,
handcuffs on my wrists,
boot in my guts;
taken downtown,
placed in a cell
with 30 straight men that eye me with anger and fear and hate –

i am Christ on the Cross,
wind in my hair,
women at my feet crying and chanting,
waiting on a spear of a Roman soldier,
watching a sun drift across the sky,
waiting for eternity,
wondering if returning might not be an option,
wishing i had taken more time,
but knowing that destiny is not mine,

nor will it be –

with the Patience of Monuments is still available HERE


CRUNKED, my newest book is available HERE


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