by Pat Parker
of a cold & empty bed.
Reflections on a March
I.
Sometimes,
I feel I’m in a time warp—
I listen—people speak
& I look to see what year is it.
Washington D.C. Nov 11, 1987
750,000 people
if you believe the march organizers
650,000
if you believe the District of Columbia police
200,000
If you read the Tribune
Hundred & hundreds of bodies
March thru the streets
And I can help but wonder—
How many would march in their hometown.
I remember a conversation
with a woman on my softball team.
“My mother’s coming—
I’m sure she knows I’m gay.
I tell her if she ask.”
I tell her if she asks
I tell her if she ask—
I’ve had this conversation—before
so many times
so many years
II.
I remember another march
Hundred & hundreds of people
singing “We shall overcome”
saying—no more chains—
slavery is over—
& I go out to dinner
with a young Black woman
She wears a studded leather
collar around her neck
Her “Master” is a white
woman from Maryland
born & bred—
& the only difference
I can see—
is that the sister
put the collar on her neck
III.
People magazine says
Moms Mabley was a dyke
Would Moms have marched
that day—
or any day
Did she walk those miles
in her mind—
or would she still
sit on stage &
tell of old men who can’t
& young men who won’t.
IV.
Hundreds of thousands
of people march thru the streets
then go home—
& I wonder how much longer—
how much more time—
Sometimes,
it seems we
need oppressors—
we take the keys
& lock the doors
ourselves.
Sweet Sweet Jimmy
Your words are razors
cutting through coke
swift, grinding
and the world listens
The sharpness of your anger
frightens—they scuttle
to contain you—
The new Richard Wright
and the anger rises
Sweet Sweet Prince Jimmy
Are you resting well?
Does sleep cool the rage?
Sweet Sweet Prince Jimmy
Sweet, sweet prince Jimmy
Are you resting well?
Has the anger gone its way?
Has the rage dispelled?
He was a funny looking
bugged-eyed faggot
and that
made the world angry
His words were like razor
blades cutting cocaine—
sliding the lines of trues
into sections to be
inhaled into one’s soul
He warned of ignorance & hatred
consuming us all—
a mighty python cracking our bones
& swallowing us—
And we listen—then turned away.
The Long Lost Ones
no no noooo
the whispers whip
around your lives
like a mighty python
choking the soul out.
Hide it, hide it, hide it
Keep it locked tight
Can’t let them know you’re queer
Keep the closet door shut by fear.
It takes so much energy to live a lie,
One’s soul sapped by secrets.
To My Straight Sister
“It’s against my religion to read poetry with a lesbian.”
“I don’t mind reading the poem as long as she doesn’t make a pass at me.”
Two Ohio women.
Soooooooo,
you think I want your body.
Plan to throw you down
on this auditorium floor
and
CONVERT you
or wisk you away
on my Harley-Davidson
to my hotel room
perhaps
ply you with wine
rip off your clothes
and
Take you
Take you in that secret way
that only lesbians know
make you a prisoner of my tongue
and a slave to my mind
and Ruin you
Your Jesus sits on his throne
waits to mark against you
your nearness to me.
Sister,
have you picked your stone?
Are you really ready
to cast it against me?
Perhaps you should know
I like my women strong
not fearful of the unknown
able to walk ways
not travelled before
able to bend in strong winds
not snap like dry kinder
Gay people call heterosexuals
STRAIGHT
like straight and narrow
or
in other words, rigid
Perhaps my sister
there is a fantasy here
of lust and loins
of ravenous seductions
but,
I know it’s not mine
so it must be yours.
Words
Riding in from the airport
She says “my partner”
I say “my lover”
Neither word seems right
Partner brings pictures
of offices and desk
going to bank
having policy meetings
lover brings images
of sweating bodies
and tousled sheets
smells of sex
wife? no
that brings pictures
of husbands—
& a wife—I’ll never be
significant other?
but that’s not enough
when I opened my eyes
after surgery and saw your face
you were not an other
when you bathe me
because I couldn’t raise
my arm above shoulder
you were not an other
when you told me
I was beautiful
and desirable
you were not an other
when you held me
as I talked of death
and the world still undone
you were not an other
you were
my one true love
my one
my significant one.
Oprah Winfrey
sisters talking
bout this sister
so I taped her show
sat down on a Saturday
to check her out.
now THIS is
a fine looking sister
solid looks like she
take on a n y b o d y
yet soft
flowing scarfs
and a light hand
that reaches out
to rub a shoulder
or pat a back
My initial impression
was definitely good
and I watched
Ms. Oprah work.
She talks with children
seduced into static cults
and their mothers who
still couldn’t believe
what happened and how —
their faces sad
as their children
tell of drinking blood
and animal sacrifices
she listened intently
as ex-satanist told
of rituals and hinted
of human sacrifices
but couldn’t really
say because of
possible prosecution
and I was surprised —
Next she took
the Klan
and I had to admire
her self-restrain
couldn’t see me
in a room full of hatred
and not lashing out
and I was spent —
Had to leave Oprah
and come back later
and sister Love was
talking to rapists
men who calmly sat and
told of abuse molestation
even murder
told of thousands of children and women
Oprah was cool
a barrier
between her guest
and the room
the women with no love.
And then the very next show
she brought out
the rapists’ wives
the women who
stood by their men
including one woman
who stood by her man
even though he raped
her daughter —
Now
I have to give
credit to Ms Winfrey
she definitely be
an amazing sister
she be wheeling and dealing
with all sorts of folks
and I have just one
question —
after watching weeks of her shows
how come?
or rather who?
where?
do folks in this
country get off
calling gay people
Queers.
I remember—
so many lives ago
when I was a child
I saw a picture, in the Houston Informer
of a man—
a young Black man
hanging from a tree.
I remember being shocked—
not at his hanging
rumors of such things
were known to me
but he had hair
on his chest—
no shoes or shirt
& I remember
staring at his chest—
I had never seen
a Black man with
hair on his chest.
I’ve since dreamed
about him—
his face—slack
no echo of life in him
yet so peaceful—
One would think him
just asleep—
were it not for the tree
and the rope
I rarely dream of him, now
yet
his image still hovers—
When I read about
Timothy Lee—
his image appeared—
not the smiling young
man with large eyes
the hairy chested
man with no
echo of life.
When I read about
Jacqueline Peters—
he appeared again—
his chest still hairy
his face still slack.
But wore a dress
a wide-brimmed
hat—head cocked
to one side—
And I stare at these
faces from the Contra Costa Times
and wait for someone
to wake me up.
Timothy Lee
he, he, he
Swinging from a tree
he, he, he,
the mystery remains
In the 1980’s
men still die
because they’re Black
men still die
because they’re gay
men still kill themselves
for both reasons
Timothy Lee is dead
the sad part
the mind troubling part
the can’t sleep well part
is that at this point
in these times
no one can say
for certain
why
Timothy Lee is dead.
little Billy Tipton
tiptoed thru his life
found himself a woman
took her for his wife
played his music
formed his own band
Oh my goodness!
Billy Tipton ain’t a man.
Billy Tipton was a lie
covered in deceit
teeming in fear
hidden deep deep deep
behind closet doors
it’s difficult to imagine,
yet so easy to know
how a woman can hide herself
for her entire adult life.
Billy hid herself
as my mother hid herself
as I have hidden myself
as women have
always hidden themselves
as I vow to change this world
so my daughters will never
have to live in shadows.
The closet is a lonely place
a tomb of self-hatred
that daily chips away
our ability to bear light
and we become modern day vampires
fearful of the sun.
I cry for Billy Tipton
she never knew
her lover’s touch
the soothing words
to desolve cramps
the deep kneading
of a lover’s fingers
to push away
the knots gathered
during the day.
I cry for Billy Tipton
she never knew the joy
of her body being bathed
the anticipation and lust
in a shower on a hot day
the tingling jolt of a pat
on your butt as you walk by
the rush of your body
as you give yourself to your lover.
I cry for Billy Tipton
She never held her children
to her breast
lay them clean and powdered
across her stomach
held their hands as
they kicked across a pool.
I cry for Billy Tipton
I cry for Billy Tipton
I cry for Billy Tipton
cause she never knew
how good it feels to
stand in front of a mirror
to look at her woman’s body
I cry for Billy Tipton
cause she never knew
how good it feels
to be a woman
I cry for Billy Tipton
cause she never knew
how good it feels
to be a woman
who loves women
and not give a damn
what anybody thinks.
We’re the Dunham-Parker’s from Pleasant Hill
We’re here to tell you what we really feel
What this whole gig is really for,
is to sing the praises of Hal & Elinor
Git down—git down
So raise your glasses; sing out your cheers
they’ve been in love for 50 years
We can learn a lot from these two
They’ll show you how to make a marriage do
They got class
They got grace
They got kids
& grandkids
all over the place
But most of all
They got love—
&nb
sp; love for each other
love for the clan
love for their God
love for Everyman
So now we’ll split this scene
and all we ask
is that your anniversary
be an out of sight blast
It’s not so bad
when your life is
enclosed in parenthesis,
born, died,
definite & final.
It’s not so bad
when the unknown
becomes known.
cause of death, and
time are projected
on scales and graphs
like tide flows
It’s not so bad
when friends as
“How are you?” and
you see their bodies
tense – buffer
for your answer
It’s not so bad
as the distance
l e n g t h e n s
clear walls build
between you and
the healthy ones.
what really hurts,
causes heart aches
and silent screams
is to watch people
prepare
for your death
and you haven’t.
“What makes you have cancer? Who gave it to you?”
Anastasia Jean
There are those
some new thinking
enlightened ones
who say—
illness is desired
brought on by the will
of those of all—
they say—
we chose our deaths—
instruct our bodies to cease.
I grew up in the American south—
heard the world nigger at 5
was first told I was no good at 6
saw police beat a Black man at 7
Discovered tracking at 10.
As a teenager, I saw images on T.V.
