Yoda’s party rhetoric
I won’t tell of Rome, back-alleys, sodomy, or being so high
you forget your name and your heighth and your degree.
But I might as well forget anything I care for if I won’t
tell of it, where it splashes in my eye walking by.
Cinaedus us, and back of the back grammar us, and liberals
packing their cane pipes us, I’ll remind you slack-jawed
in public and slobbering in private what Oscar ever did
for us, gone how far we fear for us.
I’ll remind you of the slew of sex advertising that sold
America to fifteen-year olds and the rare view of a V
soldered in the back of the hero we thought of hiding our
own cocks where we had a dollar pattered into.
I’ll remind you of thirty kids buried in Christian graves
where seven survived and either drank their brains into mine
or won awards a guilt can hardly pay for, right before
they grew Polish-old and dived in the dirt.
Mumbling about what little politics young kids them knew.
Carving their foreheads out for eyebrows, little pillars
that hardly held up a farce they could hold up
dying without laughing at mere melodrama, being kids,
talented in so many acts people can’t tell the difference
between them bowing, awarded, and dying, rewardless.