The Tension Between An Old Baptist Woman And A Sweet Transvestite.

I’ve been listening to
the radio lately in an
effort to bring back
my goddamn box—
(sin me for my
forgive. I’ve always
been a fast learner,
but I am a slow
believer)I listen

to pop radio and
Miley Cyrus and Kesha
with a dollar sign to
be just like everyone
else—
sad attempt
to fall back under the
box and back into
gregarianism. I teach

others to step
outside the box while
I cry for them as slowly
as I believe. It’s
too much on the other side.
Stay inside the
walk-in closet of life.
Don’t learn. It’s worse

than crystal
methamphetaminal kids.
Life is the only stimulant
and D— is an overdose.
Don’t make me say it.
Washington Irving said,
“Deacon Peabody be d—d.”
I can too because I “hate”

on the “haters” and
I really secretly
want to be one—
Chaucer’s merchant.
No one knows I’m
secretly in debt up
to my ass in
existentialism. Which

doesn’t even scare
me. I don’t question
my existence. I question
my nonexistence after—
I won’t say it.
It starts the
centrifuge and spins
spins spins spins—
just put one foot on
the floor to stop the
spins—I teeter down
the hall to the
bathroom to regurgitate
Genesis 9:13 into
the toilet bowl and I

remember Conor said
morning was at the window—
one breathless attempt
to know what happens
when we—
Don’t make me—
Frost said I have miles to
go miles to go, but he’s
not G(g)od. Please
g(G)od. Bring back my
box. I’m scared to D—
don’t make me say
because it’ll

make everyone
uncomfortable.