And who’s that drooling seductively
into a can of Rockstar? I thought so.
The curtains are drawn before he can
even make it through Commercial
Variations. Backstage he flips through
his own notes, oh how he flips, finding
“the flaming laundries gushed at your
approach” and “you munch the crusts
of dawn and jerk out of sleep.” Curses,
such egalitarian measures have
never been less successful, but
San Francisco has yet to be invaded
by Canada, China, or the Middle East
(pity those who carried the Stars and
Stripes into the bathhouses, ere well
before my own time, but here I
stand perhaps mildly corrected). It’s
bonus in the bank day. Ah, taxes.
The I.R.S. knows me still, and
call me while I am watching
the newest prequel to Star Wars.
Almost simultaneously, a
cloistered facsimile for “boyfriend”
reads a coat-check poem and
colors himself jealous.
