A brief intermission to discuss the great implosion of America, like the way a hollow is blown through the hole of an Easter egg, so goes the Heartland yolk, is now pale, overrun with banged girls wandering aimless & boys with big strides & bad hats, so be it. The Lesser Plains now without cheek, sauceless. Sad music makes you sad. You fled to be away from dad & to be unlonely
& the big city imbibes your horizons, makes your oceans greater than your lakes & now, the carcass is in your lap & you are The Genghis Khan of Gay Men. You are going to velvet parties with foyers & dull-lit chandeliers. You are salt-lipped & sweating & the clinking of glasses & the slurping of oysters & you are turning twenty-three & there are twenty-ish twenty-somethings & tailored suits & the thickness of a New York room. You are drinking champagne & touching your thumbs to your pointer fingers over & over hoping no one will notice your socks don’t match. That you have concealer on a lip zit. You schmooze on a lamé-draped grave & you are faking it & making it & your friends back home hate it, but at least now you’re not hiding from the cops in a cornfield outside a busted warehouse party completely sober with your boyfriend calling you right then to tell you that you are a Fucking Fag Bag & you say nothing & it is your birthday.