or the intermittent dispatch.
|Oct 23||Public post|
it's a numbers game. I've seen just so many white men if you have more than 5 unrelated in a room I'd two to fuck & one to marry, at least. the last time I was in the mountainside a BBQ spot I had two friends & a foolproof exit plan, now just a flashlight & someone to text me in an hour to see if I made it home. tonight I'm deciding to risk local exposure for some semblance of human contact. the last time there was live music. there isn't any poetry in me right now. I'm ashamed it's my metric for anything, even in theory. to be a poet till death, ugh. my second collection of poems is being called a memoir. I laugh. as a teenager, I read Augusten Burroughs & David Sedaris like they were telling me their most vulnerable secret. I assumed no one got them the way I did. they primed me for so many ineloquent crushes. unspeakable me I read intimate texts across. Maneater (1982) plays unironically at this point. the disproportionate possum on the wall has two-dimensional babies. one boy is working on the floor & each of the women has to teach me a lesson. he fits into his purple shirt. hospitality is almost the same. an openly nosy woman asked me if I was a drag queen. Africa (1982) was playing during this episode. The purple shirt flits in & out of sight with rags & uneasy smile & I'm just about ready to go. the same openly nosy woman said all her drag queen friends raised money for 'AIDS Families'. I smile through & soon she recognizes I "have my own stuff going on". A series of odd men out, mac & cheese with bacon, no live music, CBD water even on the mountain. The openly nosy woman knew nails would change color with heat. it always humors me when white strangers can just talk to each other.