Just when did I forget I kick ass?
It must have been when the bubble gum salesman
called me a queer. His own country is a failed state,
his family’s enslaved, or gassed, or butchered otherwise.
And he wears a silver dress. A tabac! Spinoza defines
hatred as a sorrow given over to an external cause.
A dervish, him! The lash—one hundred of them,
one hundred and then two, then a peculiar racism
to overtake the old. What feeble politics aghast!
To sell beer, the Islamist pamphleteer must
gather all his courage and demote it to the dust:
queer, queer—how similar our slots in the bottoms
of this country.