In The Beer Garden My Bees Do Not Pollinate
In The Beer Garden My Bees Do Not Pollinate
Multipass.
I need to see your ID. To fiddle or fumble with that 3.375” x 2.125” government laminated rectangle in your hand. Why does shame inflame my cheeks every time like I am still underaged trying to get by with a photo of my best friend's older sister. Saw my red hair, but not blue eyes. Saw my bow lips, but not five inch height difference. Said come on in, we won’t ‘x’ your paws.
Friend among Friends.
We are here, all of us. What makes us together in this? A humid late summer gathering to celebrate. How does an organization decide for us who and what we celebrate, when and why? In the first year would our celebrant have come to an event like this? What about in fifteen or thirty?
Mocktail.
You mock me sir with your syrup laden fizzy drinks titles. Buzz buzz fizz pop are just other words for I will still wake up hungover from the saccharine sacrifice of sobriety.
Currency.
The smell of your own sweat. Black t-shirts and black jeans, black berries and black routines. Lyrics by a pirate radio host of the late ‘90’s. Or was it the alter ego of a friend, recorded on a now defunct iMac garage band app? We are here with cash in hand, pre-pre loaded debit cards, when a quarter gets you in touch with a ride home.
Lick.
You took the side door, and we need to go for a walk and smoke. Can’t get back in until I lick the back of my hand and press it to yours. Before sex, there was saliva transferring ink. Let lips do what hands do– pray.
Side Door.
You are a side hustler. You have learned how to get around. And by around, I mean bypass the bullshit. You deserve to use the front door. Ambassador.
Hivemind.
Worker Bees are the creative economy and yet their time is not paid while we buy your drinks and eat your food. Take that haul and divide it. Give it to the artists, the performers, the foundation.
Jerry Saltz is not just a critic; he was a truck driver in a past life.
Whiteness in trucker caps with insert favorite local logo here.
Enough said.
People’s people.
How do we determine who our people are? Is it by the way we look? The way black lines drawn upon our body speak to the same comfort with pain. Is it by smell, acrid and sweet, telling of our bodies having been through droughts, floods, and other such human-made disasters? Or is it by the nudge of a head into the curve of a neck-shoulder cradle? The strange familiarity of platonic intimacy at play. And by play, I mean board games like backgammon and battleship and pressing play on a tape. Doesn’t really matter how long we turn the screen off for, because we hit pause before hand.
Drown.
I remember laying on your waterbed and holding hands listening to that Smashing Pumpkins song on repeat. Co-regulation.