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by Christopher Davis

Jacked someone’s dad
in the Gongora Theater.

Drag queens did rancheras,
mocked Mexican whores.

A big-titted Cuban bartender
pounded mint into a tumbler,

flexed her biceps, laughed
that this was Chinese drudgery.

“Are you a romantic? No? Yes,
it’s too expensive, I think so.”

Sang at my fan, thumping
blades bouncing

breath back down my throat, vibrato
Liza, Judy.


Nothing bad has happened to me
personally for being gay, a rusty

unicycle wobbling
down the wet

bright beach, Sinfonia
seeming to soar down through white clouds painted pink by the
     sunrise, voices

of the violin and the viola so close, best friends touching
in some bowling alley bathroom, laughing

their heads off, running
from security, slimy

serpents sliding back and forth inside two
fists, each inner governor corrupt, too

into it, performing an act, fondling
his microphone, singing flamenco.


Christopher Davis’s third book of poetry, A History of the Only War, will be published by Four Way Books in 2005. His second book, The Patriot: Poems, was published by University of Georgia Press in 1998, and his first book, The Tyrant of the Past and the Slave of the Future, won the 1988 Associated Writing Programs Award.

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