Cavity Search Manual
Your voice blinks as your sex develops. It’s
Friday in the Castro of depravity. Gone are the
Nine and the Five (oh forward slash forward slash!)
and the moth-eaten year when a spate of scrawny
Christmas trees grew crooked, up and out of the
mudded cattle-pond. But a big hearty hello to the X
and to the resounding O. He who was always fodder
for my peaches and cream. Look even now how cherry-
colored jelly clumps like cavities into each Japanese
pretzel that he’s cleverly twisted (and in pencil!).
There he goes again. And what significance!
Cut like Saturday night (with Monday a holiday!)
and wearing that soft-core grin, like he was only
just teased into showing up. Such spirit! It’s a
good thing I gargle. Tiny green spit-cups
line my hotel sink. I pronounce each.
“Masatet.” “Takato.” “Yakeshi.”
“Katsatsu.” Only to end this dream
of “When are we going to get married?”
with “Keep in mind the circle we’re all
part of.” Or parted of. “Huh?” says I,
and slap a flirt onto the Great Whatever.
Round and round like that until we find our
sticky boredom shushed and stuck in paper caps
like chewed up stucco walls. Then we head up-
stairs to fly our plastic knives and kites. Open
wide and step inside. “Here’s our master
boardroom, sir." Blankly blink and ash a little
(as we saints often do). “Yes [pant pant] our
boudoir, Master.” “[Echo] Master.”
“[Echo] Master.”
