fromthemouthofmoi

Everyone was in their place. Everything had a place. Then my biological father died. I am not going to tell you anything that smells of manure. I am going to tell you how I feel. I don't feel much about my father's death, and when my mother goes, I will feel even less. I can already feel some of you cringing and see some of you falling to knees to say a quick prayer for me; don't bother. Myself doesn't need your prayers, myself needs all of you to ask me what my boundaries are and when I tell you, myself needs you to abide by them. Leave your packet of platitudes for the hour after my death when I will finally be out of earshot. If you would like to know why I feel this way, just ask. What's the point of wonder when you don't use your tongue? And don't be asking any questions to pass judgment. Be asking to understand me. I was not raised by either parent after the age of eleven. At the age of eleven, this is when the heroes, heroines, and those that

I made my trip to Europe and what a trip it has been. It has not been what I expected. It has been more. I ask myself, self: what might you be thinking? And myself replies: too many things. I began in Dusseldorf. I saw old friends, Bernd and Sigy. Gray now and looking like strange children with youthful smiles under weathered faces. I love them now more than I did then when first we met.  They walk at a brisk pace. So brisk I can't keep up. I lumber with the gait of those living in tropical climates. They walk hurriedly desperate to outpace the cold. All those years ago in New York City's Lower East Side. I pushed Bernd, fully clothes, into a public pool. Sigy flirting with me and me too scared to let go of my sexuality. Now we are older and everything is let to pass in favour of the friendship that sustains years. The art of friendship. The friendship of art. The sudden reappearance of longevity that holds nothing and everything. This longevity allows instant simpatico. It