Am I in Chicago? You bet, my man;
my plan? To jet to Timbuktu, Mali.
I realize, "I am not I." Spirit
invokes the measure that is man. To span
neurobiology in a nutshell...
Chilling like a penguin crying. Cali
haunts my memories. Sometimes when I spit,
if I remember correctly, I taste
chicken curry and rice; or else I smell
a lingering scent of sea salt from waves
gently misting like an aerosol spray;
or I see my past trapped inside of caves.
Yes, as a child I was a monster, gay,
only as an adjective, since displaced,
under the auspices of inclusion;
but can I believe what I cannot see,
enter the so-called world of politics,
to believe I must see past delusion;
maybe I need courage to see past shame,
yet to accept with compassion the glee
men and women recover an ethics
as a measure of justice; not a game,
not a word, but a point of pride, my man.
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