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.

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.