At the End of the Rainbow
They lie, “there rests a pot
Filled to the brim with nuggets
Of gold.”
Not a fool’s gold, I hope.

Fools in black robes
Say it’s okay.
That fags, queers, homos
Can now be gay.

But they don’t know
The shit that writhed inside
Like the serpent. Their
Flinging venomous spittle-covered
Words sting while you walk down
The street with your boyfriend.

“Queers” they cry out a window.
Their cries hurt; though,
Not as mine do.

So, the recent history proclaims
That Prop 8 is gone
That they can stop they hate
And no longer discriminate.
But wait;
That’s bullshit.

‘Til the rights are actually there,
And the people go quiet like hushed
Cicadas after this hell storm
And start not to care,
About my love.

Then I guess history
Is still in progress.
The train that just can’t stop
Still in this courthouse.

At the End of the Rainbow
They lie, “there rests a pot
Filled to the brim with nuggets
Of gold.”
Not a fool’s gold, I hope.