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| robert b. weide, west, poisongirls, help, art, bars, freplyspang, french/appendices, cd, rap, local, classified, tees, comedians, | The sacristy, where you and your childhood friends were supposed to practice receiving communion lori anne flax but instead launched those wafer-thin hosts at each other like Frisbees while someone warmed up the jalopy of a church organ, and outside the coconut trees, always the coconut trees, bowed and looked in lori anne flax through the dusty windows, like attendant babysitters. You and your friends were thin and clean, studying machines, and you were all bent over laughing as the hosts flew fast and furious. Till you heard lori anne flax the priest’s cough as he approached. And now you picture the priest, at the moment the vestment slipped over his head, how he looked like a KKK brother, although you didn’t know about KKK then, nor the pain of trust gone bad. |
Best Mature Paysites
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| You walk back into the fluorescence. The restaurant is swirling with flying and dive-bombing bugs, a cloud that is bars harmless but thick, and the bars few customers are ducking and waving but no one is leaving, and a Hispanic girl, looking apologetic behind the counter, is handing out wet napkins so the customers can swab their tabletops. Since bars you are in line, you take one too, but you wipe your face and you feel better. Good enough to look around and watch a high-school couple in America’s safe city threaten to throw fries at each other. They are giggling, their faces smooth and acne-free, their braces of space-age plastic. Maybe these kids are the best students in this good school district and maybe they have loyal teachers and clean, well-lit classrooms and they will leave and go to college and drop out or win Nobel prizes. And maybe the boy will like to suck dick and love sucking—it will happen naturally without someone reminding him not to bite the lily-white host, like a nun reminded you and your junior choir buddies every Sunday, and it was always Sunday morning in the sacristy where someone had stacked fresh garlands of marigolds, their color soon making a turmeric pool at the saints’ feet. |
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