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like a shedded snakeskin, like a second shadow, like the thick vapor trails of the Red Arrows, diesel mixed with colored dye,
What’s it like to survive death through your work?
my eye is drawn to that one black body in the flamboyance.
Grandad asks, “Why does it matter if he’s black?” Adding, “The other flamingos don’t care.” And I am certain what he’s saying is: “I love you.”
You cannot unbake a cake. You can only slice. A knife is a mirror. A best friend can be a knife.
Because I wear my man, strip down bare to my man. In the mirror, there, I am.
Out of twelve of us, the only other “poet” is a white guy with locs called Vegan Warrior, and his poem compares eating meat to the transatlantic slave trade. It’s terrible.
Most people would say this is a stereotype that doesn’t exist. Unfortunately, I would say I’ve seen both this guy and this poem at a real poetry slam.
this semicoherent account from this man in touch with something that many men will never figure out,
My merman voice is broken. My merman song is spoken.
he’s not gay, he just feels a lot of things.
it’s like we’re about to do a play that we’ve been rehearsing for, separately, our whole lives.
Queerness predates its derogatory meaning.
