Captain Bê-Ðê


(following Frank O’Hara’s “Captain Bada”)

Yeah, the promoters in full force, yeah, hustling virtually every, yeah, club on Avenida
Revolución to get el capitán and his tres—el capitán and his tres amigos—to enter

their tequila-steeped discotecas. Yeah. “I’m in luv with Tee-ah-won-nah! Luv luv
Tee-AH-won-nah!!” Bê Ðê’s singing high praise mingling with the gray smog.

Captain of big shot college lacrosse team and now proud citizen of SoCal, Capt’n—and
his tongue—is acquainted with all kinds of yeahs and word-made-flesh. Yeah.

The quartet marches on, like how they down University Ave march in Hillcrest march until—
“¡AY, 1 2 3 4 CHICOS, com on een! ¿Chu juan CHEEP drinks juan HOT gurls?”

“Sí, quiero pussies!” the captain shouts back while grabbing the lacrosse stick in his shorts.
Coco Bongo is billed as a het’ro spot but ‘family members’ are all over judging from

their unlying hips and covert glances. These kids are cool to be fags from Estados Unidos
but happier as maricónes in Méjico. So is BÐ. Especially BÐ. He secretly longs

to tune in the BBC here in TJ. Not the TV and radio programs, mate—to a big black piston
a big black piston eager to come into the puckered ring of his anus. O Captain! a

welcome grin flashes across the tawny face of CBÐ with an openness and energy as he
thinks, America the beautiful. And he thinks, Aw yeah, I’m down with P&P.


Bingh studied literature and creative writing with Jim Crenner at Hobart College, where he founded and edited SCRY! A Nexus of Politics and the Arts (Anne Carson was among the contributors). He writes theater reviews for the San Diego Reader (under the name Binh H. Nguyen). Bingh is a graduate from the MFA program in poetry writing at San Diego State University and is the founder and curator of Thru a Soft Tube, a monthly reading series in San Diego.

[Purchase Issue 16 here.]

Avery FarmerCaptain Bê-Ðê

Related Posts


Poetry and Democracy: Part Three

Seven years I have / mothered this nature into a woman. / The moon, her crevices, a tree / the sharpness of her tough skin split, / the river’s green—refluxing bile. / Eve said, I didn’t need a man to be / my mother. Didn’t need his rib/God’s hand, / to be made.


Poetry and Democracy: Part Two

White people don’t like when
you say:
white people.
White people
like to remind you
that you are Indian, not black.
Black people
never say that to you.


Three Torabully Translations

Only a gashed murmur of gangue / remains at this crossroads of salts. / I notice the sharp-edged tattoo / of a forked harpoon when my memory festers. / In the black of dawn, pure métisse, / my uprooted flesh will no longer give respite to exiles. / And my life’s only protector is Death.