amazing the things you overhear-- tense shifts, fundraising efforts. I miss that smug look on my face, drinks that wouldn’t put me to sleep, bodily positions that wouldn’t make me uncomfortably endure, Mariko (&gin), & Sheika (&gin&snow). oh, man: male bashing & disbelief 101. Pat, pat! I have a fem crew all up along and through the west all up in arms and among. These women, smarter than anyone I have the pleasure to know. Well, in anyhouse, it is important to always have things with which to make a platter: cheeses, or poppyseeded mouthfuls, cup of tea or tisane, for starters (to start with).
I would like to thank the dual boyish angels for the single teacup, holding for me the single portion of red wine, allowing me to pencil this & thats/’s on notebook text. Tho’ most of all, use of the chilly-edge of their bed and dip layered to seven, housebound. The fine colourawash film ending with giant, exploding roach for Love. N.B. I really must stop showing that card-- that child-immigrant photo of myself so randomly-- someone is bound to dash off with it, my name spelled differently on either side, letters ordered differently each time they’d flip the card. I’d be pleased for them to pocketkeep if indeed the lips'd stick with the one they couldn’t pronounce as well, but just as well, my, when is it ever. Then what will I do if I need to prove I live in this country?
To James Bonding in James Bay, saving me from my cough with drops and chamomile, and valiantly searching for an open door through which to develop my film, for actually dancing with me to in the jungle, the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight at the gay bar with my biotic cement limbs cementing, redyellow.
&, perhaps, proving my ability to boil water, covered. Just, too just. Nothing will change, the rate behind itself.
What does it mean that we keep seeing that red-lipped straight girl with the cutely perfect butt everywhere, aside from her living up the stairs those stairs I've never seen anyone go up, or down--stairs always vacant, save for my eyes on them--fixed (when not on the black wooden owl, bolted to the building nearly across from us all), above The Box; she’s no good to either, or any, of us. Her sex and sexuality wrongs us, collar turned up, inspiring fashion.
& so, daylight has been saved? Apparently. If't were that easy for us---an hour forward here, another back there--salvation, & after: nothing bigger than an elbow in our ear.