Today, my bubblegum-pink shirt sat crossed-legged,

sipping breakfast tea, daintily,

in my armory.

“Too bright!”, it screamed, as for a brief moment it greeted the morning sun,

only to scurry back into the closet’s depths,

A sentiment reciprocating with the constant disparaging voice

of the specter.


Today, though, these white tight jeans made it past introversion’s prison,

Closer into the nucleus of society,

As it musters enough crystalline armor — admitted, a tad fragile, but

Surprisingly effective today,

Deflecting the relentless jousts

of the specter.


Each day,

Little David,

a smaller figure perhaps symbolizing effeminacy,

sharpens, and hardens

his two carob nuts

hidden craftily under his loincloth,

for their existence — more so their strength,

are constantly, crushingly, gruesomely,

cross examined

by the specter.


Each day,

Job —

with HIV, STDs,

mental health idiosyncrasies

or other invisible disabilities

or just self-worth poverty,

far too many self-inflicted, not per se intentional but subconsciously —



with the mirror,

making forced errors

at corners of the zugzwang of anxiety,

because Job’s little vial of being O.K. and acceptance,

shattered into dust

by the perennial fart typhoon,

of the specter.




The specter,

of excessive religiosity,

A congregation of sickly-white robes in an unauditable council of wizardry,

A troop of presidents whose spokespersons, or tweets, callously spout demagoguery,

A blood-thirsty scorched-earth march towards privilege retention and political ambition,

of which too familiarly, those who didn’t choose their identity,

fell first as the most invisibly-desecrated casualty.


The specter,

the nameless many — ubiquity of the silent majority,

paving their comfortable path of least resistance,

hell-bent on convenience and niceties and deference,

for compromise stood atop their pedestal of worship,

while suicide-causing obliterations of identity

are left to mend alone,

wallowing in their silent reverie.


The specter,

of token-word “equality”,

reverberated as if holy,

from the safe havens of liberalism’s echo chamber,

its defense now jargonistic, stale,

as absent in color as Spectre’s main character: James Bond,

and his colorless, over-diluted martini that feigns potency:

masculine stoicity,

that too many aspires to be.




I dream and wonder of one day,


or being a part of performing,


Yes, exorcism,

as we see in films.

That begins when more and more of the many are murmuring,

their words spoken, their conscience singing,

in a town-hall concert where we bask in the wondrous humanity of

selfish pettiness deflating, basking in empathy.

That enchanting song,

the kind of hallelujah that is neutral, inclusive, accommodating,

the kind evoked by MLK, Rosa Parks sassily mouthing officers in a bus,

by Milk and that surge of post-Stonewall energy.


In avenues such as these,

the magic of witnessing harrowing clouds slightly dissipating,

glimpses of hope once again peeking,

of harmonizing: bedazzling.

The solid edges of the specter’s physique is crippling, fading,

A reminder that freedom is not too far forsaken,

but continuously



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