by Maureen Seaton

Maureen Seaton

I’ve often picked web-footed partners or sibilant ones that required special hearing on my part. A clock in a Petri dish. A Dairy King.

Often, the cause of my attraction has been unpremeditated, like sodium, or magnified to many degrees of powerlessness, like Poncho Villa.

The replications I’ve squandered resemble my old high school almost sweetheart, John Meany. Before I turned so gay.

I was slinky with whores, a chanteuse of whores, borrowed from whores, the Jung of whores. I was blu blew blue with whores.

Often it was just someone playing with wigs or the idea of wigs, throwing a wig party or, later, being in the mood for wig-like silence.

Before that there were some I chose and others I thought looked too callous. I couldn’t wrestle them all, not in this getup.

Last updated September 27, 2022