The Flaming Faggots

When witches were burned in the middle ages,
the Inquisitors ordered the good burghers
(all of them men, of course)
to scour the dungeons for jailed queers,
drag them in with the bundles of wood
at the feet of the woman,
and set them on fire
to kindle a flame
foul enough for a witch to burn in.

The sticks of wood in bundles like that were called faggots
and that's what they called the queers, too, and call us still,
meaning our extinction, our complete extermination,
androcide and gynocide their one response to
any heretical blasphemy against
a god-given manliness.

Isn't it time we said yes,
yes to faggot,
proud to reclaim our martyrs--
who else will have them, or feel their pain
but we brother-lovers, we flaming faggots who
embrace the coal of final rebellion,
women already ablaze,
we catching fire from them this time,
a whole planet groaning with relief
as the bonds of an expiring masculinity
glow like wicks, then break,
slipping from all our backs.

In that holocaust, I will risk my whole self
and body
even should I perish.

My melting flesh--
My screams are only
The death of everything they stand for,
My pain short-circuits so quickly
I can't believe it.
My hand is a trellis of fire.
I can do it. It's easier than I thought,
The crisp odor has stopped.
It's they who are facing away,
Perishing, our liberation their execution.
My screams are bullets,
Blood stuttering through their skin.
I can't hear my own words anymore
Except that I think we must all
Still be chanting, demanding, welcoming

freedom freedom freedom

From a poem entitled "The Flaming Faggots (for a confrontation with the Venceremos Brigade)," by KP, issued by the Liberation News Service, Aug. 15, 1970. It is a commemoration for a group of open homosexuals going to Cuba to cut sugar cane to help Cuban socialism.