I was born fast and moving in the back of a bus 8 ½ miles outside of New Orleans. I was not noticed until my ***** cries wafted to the front of the bus, heard by a 50-year-old transvestite named Is-he-dora trying to homestead in Kentucky. She put me her manicured under arm and carried me off.  You see, mom pulled up her ******* quick, smoothed out her cardigan, and popped a Quaalude before the driver could realize she climbed out of the emergency back exit.  

My first drink was bourbon through a ******. I teethed raw leather, the heel of an old boot, and a mannequin who was named Dolly. She only wore red satin and peacock feathers. The gals only bathed her in sesame oil with almonds floating in the jar. She smelled of mom. My school was on the laps of the people in the back of racetrack stables. I take my learning fast paced with a side of jockey.

I took to the streets half paved by the beats. Cassidy may have had the road, but I had the words. I was thrown out of every Mormon congregation south of the Mason-Dixon. I made it to New York in a bathtub in the base of a pick up truck for the purposes of shoplifting for fun and profit. I vogued my way through Harlem, and at night I slept with Dolly’s sister in the bedding section of bloomies.

Here I am. Right in front of you. Can you see me? Can you smell me? Can you feel me?

You held the cup for me.
While a woman held my face
The biting comments about your obedience didn’t faze you.
I didn’t ask you to hold the cup.

You asked me a simple question.
I answered by putting my hands around your face.
I received what I wanted.
I didn’t ask you to ask.

You tipped your hat at our eye contact.
I smiled.
You smiled.
I didn’t ask you to look my way.  

Thought trouble followed me
Feminine whims of perfume overflow
The space between these moments.
I didn’t ask for scent.

I only carry it.