I have the right
to breathe if I do it quietly.
Panting makes
the body less brilliant
and more brilliant bodies make
the nation brighter.

I have the right
not to be sad. There are sad
people elsewhere, but not here.
Sadness is a function of
being elsewhere. Sadness
is a face of foreign jealousy.

I have the right
to be a foreigner if I can forget how it looks
to be one. I have the right
to pray to God in my tongue
as long as I understand that God
speaks only one.

I have the right to a homeland,
to the colors of the flag
and the afterburners’ red glare;
to smell Tibetan incense in the mall, or to marvel
at a temporary ethnic frieze
draped on the town hall.
I have the right to patriotism,
to enjoy the parade
(if not the right to admit
silently, not out loud, that
I cannot explain
why I am still applauding).

I seem to recall other rights
but they are historic
and mostly decorative.

Late at night I boil them down
and make a poultice
against the pain of missing them.

Bourbon Congratulations! You’re 123 proof, with specific scores in beer (80) , wine (83), and liquor (104).

Screw all that namby-pamby chick stuff, you’re going straight for the bottle and a shot glass! It’ll take more than a few shots of Wild Turkey or 99 Bananas before you start seeing pink elephants. You know how to handle your alcohol, and yourself at parties.

Anyone who knows me is unsurprised by this result.