Fond and Fiercesome Symbiosis

OR

And this is beauty

OR

Winged Hoarse

OR

This Ethnic Slur

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One page at a time

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Aging Americans

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My Whitey something

OR

Chinese Exercises for Eyes

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Jwei Jwei (apologies to pinyin)

Epigraph:

‘Do you speak Chinglish?’

‘No’

‘Meh. Coulda been love.’

‘I love your hat.’

j’Well, will you abandon capitalism?’

‘No.’

‘Meh. Coulda been love.’

Instructions:

Imbibe:

two maker’s marks, chilled to perfection.

Hippo and peckerbird

OR

blackwoman redtaping entry for cleaning

OR

3K loan revisited

OR

every terminal ‘l” become ‘o’ (e.g. ‘possible’ become ‘possibo’)

OR

how pedophiliac senators show love

OR

something something

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unlikely, metaphysically impossible, impredicative

OR

superlatively drunk

So it is frightening, this sharp line, this bright line between my week, my weak. And there is Ben Keightley. And he is beautiful.

I am not jamaica.

And there was Miss Fegs. And I am party to tacit greek racism. For I worry about how she is viewed, and me in my closetedness. But is OK. And she mistreats new help. And it is fine. And she had two husbands, and now none, and it averages out to one. And there will be many more.

And there is Alric. And he is faggily incompetent, in his faggy enthusiasm for me, the highlight of his week (and he could use a platinum-blond streak or two), he locks himself out of red wine and sex and the city. And there is woe looking for a locksmith with the last four digits rubbed out, like an amputee who has only and only and only his thumb on his right hand, which is crucial, because Joephet is occasionally and intentionally (robot voice) inaccessible like the location of the minimal fixed point in Kripke’s theory of truth. I love math. I love joephet. And I part with Alric. And it is fine.

And I go to D’s filming, though he is trying to set me up with Chastity or Charity and Juliana. But they are dickless. And I am bored and intrigued. And i walk to Pegasus via Columbus Circles, which is appropriate what with the faint and malingering scent of horseshit and horsepiss, for that is all that gaysianness is. And that is OK.

And at Pegasus there is Karaoke again, without scoring. For how could I score without my Joephet, my boy, my pillow, my baby, my paratactical truth.

And I come home, sweating, my metrocard damaged (and now mailed) beyond repair, like my life without my pillow.

And I am here. And so on and on and on.

And on Colubmus Circle it would be so fucking easy to be bitter. And that is why I am not so, so, so. And so I hope.

So very pleasantly drunk now, though alone, on some new whiskey I’ve acquired. It’s great just sipping while smoking and chatting on the phone, in my sort of placid lucidity. Reconnecting with my old summertime pursuits, and good to feel as if I’ve left some sort of imprint, even if it’s not fully what I would have authored if only I held the pen. Tonal shifts can be drastic, sustaining. But I am being a little vague here, perhaps intentionally. There still hafta be some mysteries left, after all…

But no, I do feel as if I am approaching critical mass of friends here in New York. I have my old teaching buddies, of course, and though D is now out of town and out of touch, Miss Fegs is a wonderful, sustaining influence, even if our schedules don’t quite match, with me and my bachelor nocturnalness and her and her more domestic idleness. We hope to have a website together, and I bet I would abduct/adopt her kids if I could. It’s just too easy to miss that sort of chemistry, where I could roll into my class Block 2 and banter with her, tell jokes to the class that only she would laugh at, being Cap’n Fags to her Miss Fegs (which is the name of a citywide detox center (which is a detox center that has branches citywide, not some other misconstrual)), full of crazy peeps who always try to bum cigarettes from ya, cuz those are still legal. Well, no. If I were just ten years older and het….