Gay Pride


We drew kaleidoscopic rainbows, as crayon men
How beautiful for a day in February,
To no longer be match-stick men.
To blaze color to our monochromatic world,
Excluded masses crying in silence, in fear,
Seated on corners, veranda steps, park benches
Even the pews of a church, not knowing
When the purple dawn will fall to this Negro night
The first light, nuptials that harmonize symmetry,
To a transposition of flesh-relations.

We are there, in bridged palms,
Caressed cheeks, converged lips, even the plumbing,
Of how water pipes are fixed inside funneling sinks,
A neo-lithic will to be no longer the outer perimeter,
The periphery, orphans of fate, the pariahs, to hold the hand
Of another, in the iconoclasm of the perfect fusion of being-on-being
Similar to being-on-counter-being, to dwell
In impunity, on a ledge, a tip, an embankment, a depression
As you slowly rise, not like a fouled miasmas
But a beautiful hot cross bun. We are only trekking
On asphalt-coated streets that scorch,
To the livid fire in our soles.

And the little campfires inside us burn,
As night falls unannounced in San Fransisico,
And we, in collective strength and spiritual harmony,
Like the Negro slaves of the deep-south,
Calling forth freedom, to come by here,
Singing kumbaya.