She was second Spartan from the left
in 300: The Musical, the all-female version
or all-something, anyway.
You know how the lights
in the purple venue can be
and this was the Fringe, after all.
After awhile, you get lulled
by the ubiquitous feathers,
dazzled by the architecture of corsets,
dizzy at the thought of climbing high heels,
not knowing what might be up there.
But her: this was androgyny so deep
it might have been whale lust
and I was Ahab
pinning love notes to the mast
with my dick.
I never did find out who or what she was,
out of the makeup and dildo-shaped helmet,
but I saw her everywhere.
Every time that bear began
to dance upon the lawn
I kept looking for semaphore signals
in the swivel of its hips.
The box prison of every painted mime
became my pants.
Wherever you are, Confucious Maximus
I love you, I think,
and I hope somewhere
in the stage of your heart
there’s a comp ticket for me.
Tip of the hat to the sexy Sandra Diaz on this one, second only to Anna in her support of the poetry vendin'. Custom words: purple, ubiquitous and androgyny. Which means this one, at least, had an excuse for being sort of gay. We will not speak of the many others where I was (a) writing from the point of view of a female or (b) writing glorified letters to Penthouse. I blame the Varietease booth across the lawn.