Mom made mine purple. I wasn’t all
royal on anyone’s ass. It was the 1970s,
a pretty color. Tonight I’ll meet Yong for a
drink at the Mix. Last night future Lucifer
and I purchased a small artificial Christmas
tree. And a few decorations. Including
a rooster and a turtle. We are emblem-
atic, like devilish violets. So is my tongue
tonight. Or vaguely so. Does this make my
iconic tongue split ironic? “Tonight’s aperitif
will be Bedlam via [long I] Bedknobs and
Broomsticks, as read by Angela Lansbury
impersonating Dick Van Dyke (poor Roddy
McDowell). From what faraway land my purple
blanket (Afghan) might have come (as I dreamt
all feminine, a routine my brother & I called
Grace & Odessa...I, Odessa). We dubbed our
headboards “Springing Things” – from each of which
all things material could be conjured. Except one. Mine
couldn’t spring a dishwasher and from poor Grace’s, never
all feminine, a routine my brother & I called
Grace & Odessa...I, Odessa). We dubbed our
headboards “Springing Things” – from each of which
all things material could be conjured. Except one. Mine
couldn’t spring a dishwasher and from poor Grace’s, never
would a sewing machine materialize. We kept ourselves awake
through Carson’s latest episode each night. One summer our
other brother, the actor, Grace’s literal twin brother,
played Grace’s husband. Or, rather, the poor espoused’s
body. He’d been crushed by a wrecking crane. We
snuck out of bed for an hour that night to attend the
soapy funeral. Somberly perching ourselves in front of
the casket. A cedar chest. My mother’s hope chest.
We’d learned to finagle it open without the key. Dunk
our heads in like ostriches and inhale a forest of cedar.
body. He’d been crushed by a wrecking crane. We
snuck out of bed for an hour that night to attend the
soapy funeral. Somberly perching ourselves in front of
the casket. A cedar chest. My mother’s hope chest.
We’d learned to finagle it open without the key. Dunk
our heads in like ostriches and inhale a forest of cedar.
