Daylight Saving Time Flies Like an Instagram of a Weasel Riding a Woodpecker & You Feel Everything Will Be Alright

The giant Slinky of  Spring approaches & I have nothing to sport after spending a fortune on hooded sweaters that make me look like I’m searching for the Holy Grail. Struggling with granola & soy milk, dental bills accumulate like snow & the potatoes I forgot have rotted. I’m broke & broke & broke & broke & broke, a bowling ball spiraling down a middle-aged staircase of doubt. The night I crazily fled for the gentrified grids of  14th Street. A pinball, I landed in Playbill. I left Brooklyn tossing televisions & futons like bombs in the bowels of  hipster bohemia. In the piano karaoke bar, I met Kevin, a Peter Pan Tennessee man who spun quips & wit like pixie dust about me. A puckish chariot fueled by moxie, this lean tambourine of charms leaned over me, a hot flamingo in the midnight light & admitted his once-upon-a-time fetish for Laotian men in his youth. I wanted him to fall for me as if  he stumbled into the inside of an Oriental mansion shaking the tchotchkes in my heart, steeping my crush into sweet green tea. Kevin would be my model of elegance, unabashed confidence, a dragon fierceness. He said, There’s more to Rainbow Pride than RuPaul & Stonewall kickball & I finally felt I belonged in DC. November, Kevin’s jaw ached. He showed up at The Black Fox mumbling  jumble garble through tears. His feature canceled. After the first break from winter gray to blue, Facebook alerts Kevin’s wheeled to hospice, liver cancer. I teach Donmike how to make pancit noodles. We become the curse of gossiping Filipina spinster aunts. How have we become giggling little lily pad princesses behind invisible hand fans, waiting for our potential suitors to make the first move? I wonder whether you’re afraid my hug lingers a little too long after I rub your feet or maybe you’re just a Scorpio expressing affection & I know I have 3rd world Daddy issues but I don’t want to bring up hopes & fuck ups. Maybe I’m in love with you like that baby weasel riding the flying woodpecker’s back. It’s an Avatar magical, sci-fi, unexpected flash of  bliss when really, the woodpecker is fighting for his life. The weasel doesn’t know what it’s gotten itself into but a thrill that will never come again, something better than a feathered Baby Jane din-din. Tomorrow, you’ll want to go to Rehoboth & kite surf at the beach house of the guy who lusts after you. The priest’s sermon makes no sense: Forest Fires in the Bay, Water Well Maidens &“Let It Go” from Frozen. It’s not that I hate white people or that we’re soul mates. It’s that you’re beginning to wash off me like ashes in holy water.