They say we are like beasts in the night;

Senseless and wild.
Menacing fangs, ready to devour the world.



In truth, we are like wolves;

Untamed with teeth to rip apart all who dares threaten our packs.

With furs to cuddle the biting cold away, sharp ears and eyes to pick up on the first signs of danger.



In truth, we are like cats;

Finding our home back from the streets,

Or simply knowing how to get away from the hand that feeds nothing but pain.



In truth, we are like rats;

Blamed for a disease we do not have,

Deemed filthy and wretched by all who refuse know us.



In truth, we are like crows;

Beloved by the outcasts,

Flock together into groups, loyal with a love that can bring gods down.



In truth, we are like mint;

Impossible to get rid of, no matter how many of us you pluck out of this earth.

Persistent and all the more lovely for it.



You say we are like seeds planted in pots;

Destined to settle down the way the gardeners dictated, all other possible futures disregarded.



In truth, we are like the moon;

the phases are nothing but your refusal to see as us a whole.

All lives matter!!

I wear an old 45 for skin.
Side A is the surface you see;
White and pale under our winter's skies,
But much darker by September.
Side A does a fine job
Keeping my entrails in.
I like the harmony, beat and rhythm of it.

Side B of my skin is harlequin,
A melting *** of mosaic colours
You can't see,
But if you listen,
My lyric is a palette of hues.

She was absent from the ceremony,
Her disdain was so intense;
So counter to her idea
Of what humanism meant.

I have sat before the drums,
Breathed in the smudge cloud;
Attended Temple,
Ate at the spiritual maturity for Baha i.
I was anointed with chrism on my ears;
Bestowed all rights and privileges;
I have paid union dues,
And bargained against rank and file.
Etc., etc., etc.,

Each Rite is a Reality Show,
We're given prepared scripts,
To read and make seem possible,
What we know to be implausible.

Some people love only a
particular kind of face, only
a certain color of skin, only
a distinctive accent in another’s
voice, only a spelling of a
last name like their own.
They probably prefer a blank
canvass to one of Picasso’s.
They need no eyes, not even
a heart:  bigotry blinds their
sight;  the suffering of others
they do not feel or see;  their
soul is dark and sick. I prefer
different faces, eyes as blue
as robins’ eggs, brown or black
as Mother Earth from which we
all come. Show me different
dances, different clothings,
different customs. Teach me
of the variegated ways so
many others live and fall in
love, making babies of skin
colors, one different from the
others, but all crying for mother’s
milk like infant members of a
Greek chorus. We need a
deus ex machina to turn
racism into the rhapsody
of love.

You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face;
Do you Kabuki?
Mime, non? Mime, oui?
But every March,
Millions of others,
Attired in green,
Some painted like Celtic warriors,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get sotted, some must disgracefully.
That's what the Irish do, think they?
I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur,
Not a burka on Eid al-Adha,
Or lead the parade
Up Fifth Avenue.
Slainte