10-24-2025, 04:54 PM
*This poem is excerpted from my larger poem, From Prey to Liberation, which itself is part of a larger project called Tools of Liberation, and should I ever finish that, presuming I have the stamina, will be a part of an even larger project called “In Defense of Humanity.” While I have posted from Prey to Liberation, because of its length, I understand it will be too daunting for most people. So, I much shorter excerpt here.*
The Door at the Inn/Stonewall
(from Prey to Liberation)
At the Inn, Greenwich Village,
the door slowly creeps open,
an eye peeks through—
a cautious ear quiet listens.
A brave step out,
knowing the night’s romance
abandons the instant
mocking catcalls
curdle your way.
Can you retreat to the Inn
before the footfalls are beside you?
Gloom.
Two black-and-grey
satin-clad drag queens
sat pouting, smoking long tobacco
cigarettes side by side along the bar,
facing opposite directions, cast down.
The artist at the other end
is paying no mind but to his
martini and dark ruminations.
A dyke that rode in on a bike—
on her high horse— is the obvious
Empress of the Defiance Corner of the Bar.
A brighter corner of the bar,
a blonde twink in a flower-printed shirt,
fire-red leather pants,
is screaming at a leather man.
Nearing now, sirens wail.
Silence falls at the Inn.
Feet scramble, pulses rock.
This time the submissive, docile patrons
of the Stonewall Inn threw bricks.
Marsha swings back, high heel in hand—
it’s now a projectile!
They barricade the cops in the gay bar.
“How does it feel for your only safety to be your prison?”
The Door at the Inn/Stonewall
(from Prey to Liberation)
At the Inn, Greenwich Village,
the door slowly creeps open,
an eye peeks through—
a cautious ear quiet listens.
A brave step out,
knowing the night’s romance
abandons the instant
mocking catcalls
curdle your way.
Can you retreat to the Inn
before the footfalls are beside you?
Gloom.
Two black-and-grey
satin-clad drag queens
sat pouting, smoking long tobacco
cigarettes side by side along the bar,
facing opposite directions, cast down.
The artist at the other end
is paying no mind but to his
martini and dark ruminations.
A dyke that rode in on a bike—
on her high horse— is the obvious
Empress of the Defiance Corner of the Bar.
A brighter corner of the bar,
a blonde twink in a flower-printed shirt,
fire-red leather pants,
is screaming at a leather man.
Nearing now, sirens wail.
Silence falls at the Inn.
Feet scramble, pulses rock.
This time the submissive, docile patrons
of the Stonewall Inn threw bricks.
Marsha swings back, high heel in hand—
it’s now a projectile!
They barricade the cops in the gay bar.
“How does it feel for your only safety to be your prison?”