I wish to bang the gong in front of the bathroom
with Ambien. Next to Camper with Curtis or
posing at Yerba Buena (it isn’t as dizzy as it
sounds until 3:00am). Then to Kim’s for
Mezzanine fliers. Dinner. Sake.
I can’t remember your drag name but I find you
attractive. Maybe it’s all the gold make-up.
Then to my place for a shirt for Brian. Toto
must be looking down from heaven and
wagging his tail. Nice aura.
The hot dog guy seemed to say hi nicely,
I mean to make a point of it. The hot dogs
are all wrapped in bacon and despite the minor
cat-fight (no bleeding, just mustard on the black
pants from Venezia) were completely in our mouths
before we were completely in our cab.
Rene was there, too. And Windy. I said hi to lots
of folks. And we didn’t get together, really, but
some stuff. This is where I like to think. In
the end, however, after I found my way to
a vibrant anger, I slipped into a bed of
sobs. Many hours later you accepted
the job offer.
The gong is gone now. Perhaps to bluer days.
As overseer, you must be, well, overjoyed.
But now who’ll break us from our slumbers
each morning? There is always much to
mourn. But nostalgia for a clear head
unwavering sense of direction?
