She is a mass of contradictions,
smooth curves and sharp tongue,
soft skin and hard thoughts,
happy mouth and sad eyes.
An alluring curiousity,
she travels with the freak show;
under constant scrutiny.
Beauty struggles under
harsh lighting,
grotesque truth
brought to the fore.
Free within a cage
To which you hold the key.
Redundant wings now used
To cover her face.

When I dress up in completely black, they maybe get the message, and leave me alone, or maybe help me.

Oh little child.
Don't judge.
Show some respect.
For an old man who thought the war.
Fought for our freedom.
For someone who is openly gay.
Someone who does nothing but love.
Show some respect.
Don't judge.
Just because someone is not like you.
Show some respect.
Oh little child.
Help making this world a better place.

its that special time between
the winter and autumn
when its sometimes snowing
and there’s no sunshine
to come leaking through
the clouds are thick at this time

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I still shave
And later scratch the burn atop
My, “apple.”

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I wake up. I go to work.
I hate copy-machine jams.
And I hate my boss.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
In China, poets often drink.
I drink,
Therefore I’m in China.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
Which doesn’t excuse,
It creates my, “excuse,”
At the least, to wander.

And I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
If I weren’t, I’d never sleep;
I’d never live, never dream,
And’d never know you.

Mao’s on the wall.
Mao’s on the cat,
Mao’s the cat,
And Mao’s on the truck.
Mao’s tucked text.
Mao’s still the cat
Mao’s on the hat;
And Mao’s rendered stencil.
Mao draped in red,
Mao embalmed vacuum,
Mao smiling dirt
And Mao in slaughter;
The good, the bad,
The, “godly,” great
The ’89 slaughtered, ugly,
And as putrid as the scholars
Being spat upon.
So Mao’s tempered glass
And Mao’s tempered solemn,
Surrounded a spectacle,
When I, Mao and I,
Author and other, other and
Away, gaze eye-to-eye with,
“Before.”
His are closed,
Mine, unblinking.
I think of heroes,
I, “tinker,” butchers,
And ponder,
“Just,” and to the right of,
Right,” what is, “right?”
Would he have been?
Would she have been?
Would I have been?
“Right?”
Just what the hell is,” right?”

Sick of being talked down to