It’s an emergency sandwich
How often? Every time.
He has a tiny little tail. It’s ridiculous.
We just have to sit there. Yeah, that’s about it.
Should we be drunk? You gave us beer.
I am drunk.
I do not drink beer.
A poor man’s Enterprise.
Like, not going anywhere.
Their hands look small.
I am thinking of so many other things.
But wait. But Earth’s Greatest Hits.
Paul Lazar keeps laughing.
I keep forgetting to watch.
The critic makes the movements critics make—I have made those movements.
What do you get when you cross a fox and a duck?
Why the long face?
Zippers. Drop crotches.
Move your hips.
Maybe—oh. Her tail is bigger.
These lights are like roller rink lights (Guns N’ Roses. Poison. Acid-washed jeans.)
Everybody miss-remembers. It’s the job.
Flaubert? Oh, wait. Edith Piaf.
“Her tail is longer than his tail.” “That’s your lede.”
Misogyny & stand-up comedy
The second-to-last frontier.
I went somewhere else for a second.
I’m back. But not without regrets.
The boy can do it, not the girl.
Life was easier before art turned me into a feminist.
I’m dying up here.
You’re dying down there.
Hetero blah blah.
What if I were 100 percent sober? 90?
There’s only one bearded lady in this town and it ain’t you.
Wait wait is she actually in control and you’re missing the whole point?
It’s so beautiful.
Not me, not you.
Oh, shit. It’s an after school special.
She plays every trump card. It gets less interesting.
(or maybe that’s me)
Every day is an emergency. Duh.
He didn’t finish his sandwich.
Face plant. Black death.
No nostalgia, not when you’ve come this far.
Clenched jaw blah-blah.
Skinny blue limbs. Death.
Somebody already told her twice.