I want to go to Georgia, sit on my old front porch swing
and listen to the crickets, even though while I’m there
I feel like a stranger to myself
and there’s a schizophrenic phantom that haunts me.
If all my emotional wounds were scars
I’d have no skin left, little flesh,
mostly down to bones and a painful heart. Medication helps.
So, I swing back and forth, Georgia pine trees meet my marrow.
Fucking pine trees, they make me cry.
I’m listening to Neverland by the Sisters of Mercy. Have mercy,
I am post trauma, stressing in a disorderly fashion. I like fashion.
If I could cross worlds at midnight on Halloween I’d ask Alexander McQueen where he was
standing when he became inspired to make that beehive hat for that 2013 ad.
Did he see the tiny creatures floating around
or did he put on his surrealist shades and see all the humans
as bees as he slid on his diamond studded gloves
and proceeded to lick their American Honey. I have that on tap.
I’d also ask him if he had an opinion
about everyone wearing infinity scarves and leggings like pants.
A girl with giant heels got on the elevator with me yesterday
and I could see nude legs beneath the floral pattern.
I wanted to run my hand across her thick legs to feel the fabric.
I doubt she would’ve let me,
but her attire reminded me of my
Leopard gecko molting.
Maybe to take her pants off she’d fall on the floor clumsily
and drag herself until her second skin rolled off.
We could all use a little shedding from time to time.
A guy I know likes to park his Audi and ride his skateboard wherever he goes
because he’s 33 and works for the government.
My friend Ian never wears thin polyester pants
probably because he’d have a bulge,
but perhaps because he’s not into cheaply made synthetics.
Surely Alexander McQueen scoffed at polyester, too. I bet he was allergic,
sneezing all over the place. I wonder how many days of the week he wore black,
or if he wore black at all.
Maybe his closet looked like mine, like the set from Edward Scissorhands:
pastels, pretty patterns, and black. I like black.
The color of the void, the abyss, the empty hole
in existence where all possibility awaits to be ignited.
Black is where the magick happens.
Black is the color of my sweet cat. Where the stars hang out in the sky.
I wonder if Mufasa knew what he was talking about
when he told Simba that all the great Kings of the past
look down from the stars. He probably meant Queens, too.
Or maybe the Queen is the moon.
If I were sitting in that old porch swing, I bet I could look up
and see my Momma’s glowing face.
I bet I could feel her arms blanket around me in the warm, humid, Georgia air.
