Being in San Francisco for pride is akin to being at mecca for muslim holiday.
I have been keeping busy: overwhelmed by middle eastern queer dance parties with free hookahs (causing my 2 main cultural identities to merge for one night! woah!), nipples, rainbows, dancing in the streets, high fives, booty shorts, necking, bike rides, vodka redbull, wheatpasting prints from printmaking class, having a reception for my art show at the center, and fabulously quueer theatre.
What else could a little prince want?
And so, before I cuddle with my brand knew superdupersoft sheets, here is a poem to enrich your brain after all the drinking dulled yr cells.
What She Could Not Tell Him
to know all the bones of your spine, all
the pores of your skin,
tendrils of body hair.
all of my skin, my hands,
ankels, shoulders, breasts,
even my shadow,
be forever imprinted
with whatever of you
is forever unknown to me.
To cradle your sleep.