"getups" poems
went to a wedding
a straight white wedding
full of straight white people
who lean to the left
I was an island there
floating
a small gay resort
watching the rituals
thinking of color
now we can marry
mine would be different
full of living color
no purity of white
but the shocking hue
that is hot pink
guests in their getups
would leave
dull at the door
there'd be open flames
burning bright
orange haired boys
serving the drinks
projections of past love
lighting the walls
and only 60 seconds of silence
to honor the vows
then back to the dancing
and on with the show
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:02 AM UTC
The British royal family is front and center this weekend. How unusual is that?
The empire may be gone, but it’s time to recall its ghost, dust it off and invoke the ancient spell of monarchy.
A coronation, the original dog & pony show - God’s kingly sinecure. I can’t remember the last one.
You have to know who your great, great, great, grandfather was to be nobility-class smug or to don those getups, with medals that would have made Caesar blush and Attila laugh.
The cast is familiar, if somewhat balding, the too-old king, his - whatever - wife.
I can’t help mourning Diana. Accident, treachery or karma, grown men cried at her passing, Shakespeare’s darkened heavens blazed in sorrow and, eventually, even the gray queen bowed her head.
There’s no more honor, in 2023, and if there’s any glory, its light has grown as dim as the glitter of gold.
The fact that the royals are better than us, is axiomatic. Not morally superior, of course. That’s the Pope’s job. The royals are like Britain’s Mickey Mouse, and any civilized man, who’d strike at that, would have to be a fool.
May 5, 2023
May 5, 2023 at 12:33 AM UTC