from the neo-futurists

JT: I took this love and went deep into the woods wearing only clothing I bought from a truck stop. I surrounded myself with airbrushed sunsets on my t-shirts, on my air fresheners. I stole a joke book from the library and kept it in my back pocket. I never read it. I just wanted it nearby. (runs again)

JT: And no one admits to that. No one ever tells you that when love is lying next to you, quietly sleeping, that you should trace your fingers across the treasure map he has tattooed on his back. Queer or not. You should try to commit that map to memory. Because from a distance that map is difficult to read. It just looks like a bunch of bruises between his shoulder blades. (runs again)

MF: Meanwhile we sit. With powder caked brushes in front of our mothers’ mirrors. Staring at a mug shot reflection. We are god hungry angels. (remains planted, does not run)

CJ: We have misguided red hallows smudged in and around our lips as we beg the question “Why?” (remains planted, does not run)

BD: We scrape the soot from a dog track ashtray and smear it like blush along our cheekbones. It is feminine and hungry. (remains planted, does not run)


EB: And without hesitation, boy presses forehead against another boy’s forehead and says “This is home.” He names it that. He convinces the universe to pass him by when it comes to stand like a boot on his chest. He carries his stress in his spine. (remains planted, does not run)

Jay is the only one running. ALL (but Jay) JT stops, plants feet and faces audience.

JT: And when he takes my hand. He is a bouquet of balloons on a string in the woods floating untangled through each tree limb. There is no soundtrack playing, only breath. No bread crumbs leading back home. Only breath. And when I say “he” I mean “us”. Because he makes me feel like I’m the one that is floating. Like I’m the miracle. (Jay takes two or three breaths)