I remember the dangers of angel
hair.
—Joe
Brainard
I just
sat there,
all
day, watching
another
hair go gray.
“Can
you push the
ancient,” says the man
who is perpetually
who is perpetually
young. At the very
moment, I receive
an
invitation
to
witness “1000
BOYs in
JOCKSTRAPs”
this
Saturday. To
dance
among
jockstraps
gives
me a
twinge
that is
neither
overly
mature
nor
nostalgic.
“Why
bother
with
angels,” says
the
youth of a man
who
claims to have
clung
to my life
for
years,
trapped
in a
soulless
heart—
or
a heartless
soul—that
was
once
and always