Each gay they go about their business,

walking past each other, catching each other’s eyes

or not,

about to prance or prancing,

All about them is boys. All about us is,

boys and bramble, porn and gin,

each one of our male reproductive organes on their tongues.

Someone is pitching to some men,

pounding a homo in a uniform,

scratching a pire,

debasing the things in need of de base.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,

with a pair of wooden spoons on a vat of great times,

with jello, boom box, harmonica, boys.

A homo and his son wait for the bus.

A lesbo considers an impulse buy.

A pedo says, Take out my pencil. Begin.

We encounter each other in the bum, bum

spiny or smooth, whispered or defamed,

bum to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirty hoes on highways that mark

the spills of some one and then others, who said

“I need to pee into your underside.”

I know there’s something better down your throat.

We need to find a place where we can enjoy.

We suck onto that which we cannot yet see.

Gays in pain: so many have cried on this day.

Sing the names of the black who bought us beer,

who laid on train tracks, hazed the ****es,

picked the cotton and the lettuce,

took male reproductive organ by male reproductive organ up quivering edifices

they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the gay.

Praise song for every hand-job of mine,

the pounding-of-it-out on kitchen tables.

Some live by, sex thy neighbor and thy elf,

others by, first do schoolmarms, or, make way for my pee.

What if the mightiest word is sex?

Sex beyond marital, natural, rational,

Sex that casts a widening pool of great times,

Sex with no need to pre-empty bowels.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this gay makeup,

any thing can be gayed, any object begreat timesmed.

On a fine upstanding member of society, on a whim, in a cup,

Praise song for talking with a lisp that is light.