My friend William would tell me stories of the scenes that took place in his apartment in the East Village, Circa, 1980's. This is an excerpt of one of those stories of a dear friend he lost to AIDS. My emphatic response follows
1/22/05
“…Then there was Guido. When Guido lived here he used to put on these 4” pumps and march around the apartment cooking and cleaning “he made every effort to make sure this little apartment had all the feeling of a luxurious palace that only kings and queen lived in” He chuckled in that deep raspy baritone voice. “Well, we were queens, I guess weren’t we” “ No no .. WE are STILL queens” I insisted taking a puff of my Marlboro.
When I walked across the room, I pondered the crowd, questioning their luck
I was so drunk and stupid I didn’t give a fuck.
I fell over everyone and acted like a buffoon.
Pranced around drenched in chiffon, colour: bright maroon.
I looked good. At least I thought I did.
Held together in pubic, but ugly when I hid.
When the coke fell
My head would swell.
My heart would race
Running to keep up pace.
I always wanted to be something I wasn’t.
I never liked who I was, told myself I couldn’t.
I am beautiful, so they all tell me
Back home in Caracas, they don’t acknowledge “he”
Nueva York has given me hope
Even if it takes a whole lotta dope
The lie can only last so long
The game was so tiresome, ridiculously wrong.
Why do you think I’m go great?
When all I see is just pure hate?
Is it the drugs I supply you? Tell me, why?
Is it my tight mussy, Or the Style I imply?
Is it the black American express card?
Can u please just tell me, does that make you hard?
It’s all just an act. All just a game.
In fact, you don’t even know my real name.
1 comment:
I love your writing, Bobby. I'm reading a book you should check out -- in all your free time! :) Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg. She has studied Zen formally and is a published author who also teaches workshops and classes for budding writers. Check it out! :)
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