Get in the car: poop-poop! You freak out about your dick, I’m well-equipped. Everyone panics her dick, clockwork. This one is a very rare clock. You cry on the beach: “I should have been a butch.” “You should, but you would have transitioned.” (Keening): “Oh!” (Same figure, not keening): “I know.” I find boys to put your fist inside—we wake up to gossips sipping their nitrous nearby. His name is NOT Oliver but in his overalls he’s guilty that he made you sad. Now you’re sprawled wheelbarrow-ward with me. All men are only halfway here, even when we’re alone. What will be your next fanaticism? This time, we’ll make it one I share.