Tuesday, September 20, 2016

February, 2015

I’ve looked for the prompt, I’ve waited with the best of them, for the waiter. For the menu. For the last time at the very least.

I don’t have your brow. I don’t even have that much sweat. I don’t bray. And I had very little to say in January. For the last time.

I’ve rubbed until fleshy flexes and tenses and changes against my own touching. At the very least.

I wait for my ankles not to be cold, but to still be uncovered. This is not a revelation. It’s not even pretty.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

The Famous Person

I wanted to tell the story of the famous person I met who I did not know was famous. He was a writer and a director and an artist and a predator. I told several different versions in several different ways and let my audience guess to whom I owe my nonchalance, my air of mystery, my disinterest in the profane.