Thursday, July 22, 2010



You’d draw out the necessary patience
to stay, watch, and conquer

the tin man; a personal allusion  
of the vexed macho in drag.

Your body oozed contemplating
the giving of pleasure.  You knew

how to bend, break, and subdue. 
At the end of the night you were

on top of the most manly queen
in the show.  Your only fault

was that incessant need to talk.
Your audience was less than four. 

So, when you invented that bit 
about a cowardly lion you were

one witness short and I got to give
the hundred lashes and hang the sign: 

Drug Dealer, Police Mafia,
Bugarron de Mala Muerte.


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