Wild(e)s

Oily rainbow streak,
across the skies of civilization:
nearly invisible
in the whispers of suspicion

to its brilliance today,
since the closet exploded
in 69, sex positions
multiplied in urban space,
Victorian sensibility roiled
in unapologetic pleasure palaces.

Or so the myth goes,
and what a myth it is,
I think, sitting in a rural
Louisiana town, catching
Wifi in a cafe.

Why a myth is the
first question sure to hit
me square in the gut
as I claim the rainbow hasn't been
so smooth (lacking an arc),

but patience, please,
listen to the words that flow
from pen to paper with ease:

it's path did not go from muted
to brilliant across a sky of ages,
and it does not shine now,
though it has had it moments
of radiance in decades disconnected.

A sad fact, yes,
but something better
than deluded sense of things,
not a dismissal of positive
changes but a recognition
of the lengths we still have to go
under a new moniker:
postmodernism in an otherwise
milky indifference.

First thought of support
for the sad fact is simple,

I have sinned,
or so they tell me
on Solemn Sunday,
part of a gray and black mass.

Nietzsche claimed
God dead long ago
but I don't believe him,
listening to words of religious
leaders float hate across
a land that claims
"life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."

In all too many
nook and crannies
of the country, a single message
sits resiliently:

"God hates fags,"
from the mouth of
a grim reaper
who has no respect
for dead,
uttering damnation as
mourners weep in their own black garb.

Extreme example, yes,
but reflective of the feeling that
lingers under skin and in minds:
aversion to the oily rainbow
as it bends away from expectation.

The second support for
our sad fact,
this bending toward the middle,
postmodernism materializing
in political consciousness,
wondering why the focus
on marriage equality

when young teen boys
wash shame off hands,
having masturbated with
thoughts of sweaty male bodies,
tantalizing stubble against
chins,

when the lesbian woman
cannot listen to the sermon
she wants, foregoing faith
for Sunday cartoons and creamed coffee,

when kids like Lawrence King,
possessing identity
circumflex away from
expectation, are murdered
for nothing more than acting
as they feel comfortable,
reminding us of the Scarecrow
left for dead in Wyoming
a decade earlier,

to the person who sloughs labels--
plethora of possibility in
an opened box--
but is branded, cattle in human form,
as this or that against their
intentions: nomadic and free,

postmodern intensity building,
still more grievances, head
barely bobbing 'bove water,
but necessarily doing so,
soul somehow free from
the weight of deconstruction:

embedded racial issues,
souls who tore down the closet door
in true moment of
rainbow brilliance
now obscured by a snow white sheet,

evident masculine privilege
lost in gender's common conflation
with sexuality,
controlling movements and
lives, male voices silencing
others,

and further unapologetic
misogyny,
(masculine only) men
filled with brazen laughter
at limp-wristed, skinny,
femme "bois"

and Trans-- what is that?
Help me...help me....
help me...echoing from
Bangor to San Diego but given
no response, left to linger
as soul tears itself apart.

All of this as "Masters" of a
this invisible community
sitting in buildings in
big cities contemplating
the next move to gain marriage rights,
tepid in their responses to criticism,
afraid of visibility,

in an instant confirming
what has been said:
the rainbow does not shine today,
save that one day a year
it is acceptable to de-robe
and parade material lust.

And yet, hope has not been lost,
the rainbow never
disappears across blue
sky now dotted with
the purple and pink
hues of puffy cumulus clouds,

Reinvent, Reinvent!
whispers the wind,
Reinvent, reinvent!
But what change?
When? And most importantly:
The result?

Go wild(e), it replies at once,
unfettered, confident,
in tones it says never to be
afraid of the
darkness,
the haze,
the grim,
the opposition expected
to the visibility:

setback is certain,
souls abyss bound
and others still extinguished
by the vehemence of others,

but the price of freedom
has never been greater,
recoloring the rainbow
a more difficult task
than first sending it across the sky,

difficult but important,
daunting, and yet manageable
if remembrance becomes a tool--
the words of past poets,
prize-winning authors--catalysts
for reinvention
and key to the
rapture of the soul,

not just temporary rapture
in sensual touch
or orgasmic shrieks piercing
through otherwise lackluster night,

no, rapture of the soul,
with the body and mind as
weapons, running wild(e)
through the urban alleyways
and winding dirt roads,
running wild(e) with
defiance of everything "natural,"
order disrupted in defense
of the fundamental right to be:

complete fulfillment may
be impossible, but in
recapturing a spirit,
in taking a look deeper
into the realities of a "community,"
unearthing recondite facts and
being unafraid to utter
four simple words:
"this is a lie,"

you once again recolor
the oily rainbow across
the swirling skies of today
and create some chance
of the pursuit of
life, liberty and happiness
to be fulfilled,

listening to the sounds
of Phelps peter to silence,

watching young men
no longer wash shame
off hands after they come
thinking about other guys,

seeing the lesbian woman
utter 'Amen' in confidence
and comfort,

witnessing creation of
a memorial for the
Scarecrows of the ages,
erected in D.C.,

and hearing a response
to the lonely "help me"
that echoes in every state now.

The arc will not be smooth,
the time will not be short,
but it never is:
only in the greatest moments of struggle
is one truly freed.