Author: lbstowe

Stability is in the shitter…& swirling fast.
They’re bullying strained & overworked federal staff.

Not protesters over it with the powers that be…
But, by their own bosses whitewashing diversity.

Tax & Tariffs harm mainly the meekest in this world.
Most unaware, with their noses around grindstones curled.

Still human under heavens, temples, domes or steeples.
The second & third worlds are still peopled by peoples.

They’re inside servers purging government of function.
Progress at breakneck speed’s no different than destruction.

You see none of yourself in the Queen right here?
Is that all…is that what you detest as Queer?

You’d skin your own joy to avoid being Gay.
Happy’s all you’d be at the end of the day.

Still, of those under our tent; you are not Fans.
If such an archetype, why threatened by Trans?

Angry at love between Ladies without men.
Just broken boys jealous of the Lesbian.

We are The safe space for defining the Mo.
Pride in our Tribe’s the reason our stripes still grow.

Yes, Opportunity can knock…or hide…or run.
It does not care if it is convenient or fun.

Blessed with the benefit of circumstance & time.
Happenstance occurs inside of fair play or crime.

Grab the bull by the horns & blow pride on kazoo.
We know potential passes by…we hunt it too.

Casually waiting to strike; affecting a cool.
Stalk possibilities with a bludgeoning tool.

If you live long enough, some chances come back round.
If they’re missed in the past, they’ll call back before ground.

The thrill of the hunt, the thrill of the chase.
Either have rarely applied in my case.

I’ve painted towns & I have played thru blue.
I’ve slung the drinks & had my fair share too.

I’ve been it, I’ve been him & I’ve been me.
I’ve bolted, I’ve stayed & learned how to be.

Most incarnations, I’d only exist.
Go & get along; do naught to resist.

I never did have ways, or means, or wiles.
I’d find my self in the weeds without guile.

Not much more slick with the advent of age.
Quiet & still in my patina sage.

A blessed burden, the trinkets I’ve taken.
My eyeballs’ collection; has my soul shapen.

Our art & history…our nature & crafts.
Above & below worlds of viewable shafts.

These billion points of light, absorbed in our course.
Those that linger, pierce thru our souls to their source.

There’s Art for everyone & there’s Art right now.
There’s human behavior & tons of know-how.

Ritual baked into birth…& into death.
We are the stories read & lived upon breath.   

No more these apologetic loves.
No more the timidity of doves.

No more the waif with a hopeful sigh.
No more the orphan just getting by.

No more afraid of battles gory.
No more missing the point of story.

No more awake with worry & fret.
No more the guileless innocent get.

“From now on” feels set for failure’s launch.
Though, “No matter” might a crisis staunch. 

There’s nothing wrong with being buoyant.
Nor, is being a bit clairvoyant.

Nothing wrong with coasting right on thru.
Gone with the flow, as some always do.

One weather eye is just the ticket.
Always be half ready to picket.

The rest of you can unclench & cope.
Coiled for unrest; while careening for hope.

These will be a very tense four years.
Fan flames of progress; not right wing fears.

Everybody knew but me.
Knew, yet denied, what I’d be.

The tools they used; simple books.
Young & deep; they set their hooks.

I could not right unknown wrong.
Prayed for death; but survived long.

Coming out wasn’t heeded.
Fought a battle they’d ceded.

I’ve made mountains from molehills.
Arms invite & shoulders kill.

Four more years of foot shooting…we’ll make it gay again.
Do not worry my dearies …just breathe & count to ten.

Blame’s a game that we know well…we’ve  been hunted before.
We’re repression’s red herrings…not culprits of the fore.

The Red & Lavender Scares…you’ve heard these in passing.
Margins are always aware…of dangers amassing.

We watch the writhing center…sparks leaping for powder.
In shock, we watch implosions…quiet when they’re louder.

Change is born in sideline notes…from edges growth pours in.
Don’t fret & cluck my chickens…we’ll make it gay again.

Faces are like ears…oval coasts with complex inlands.
Time’s just flattened spheres…we’re the needles riding its bands.

We sing out our parts…our harmonies & melodies.
We scrape out our arts…our indelible rarities.

Living & Dying…spun on two tables in tandem.
The records don’t change…but the styluses are random.

The finer the point…the more brightly it sounds the croon.
If dull at groove’s joint…crackle shaves nuance from the tune.

We’ve a central chord…from start, thru chorus & resolve.
All else complicates…these simple shapes that we evolve.