I’ll just leave this here because nephs grow up and blogs grow stale. Consider it a downpayment for more, better, anything.
As you can see, Ford does not dance like nobody’s watching—he dances like his audience adores him. And so should we all…
So what are your best moves this just-spring Friday evening? Mine will be a long, easy walk on a velvety night. I will probably listen to RuPaul’s podcast, because who better than a 7-foot drag queen guru-mama to guide me along the path? Then I may channel my inner Ford and dance like everybody loves me in my upstairs hallway. My moves will look slinkier and more hip-driven—I mean, you gotta shake what you’ve been given. Here’s to lots of joyful movement this weekend. Let us take our snow-shocked selves out amongst these new swaths of bloom and green—and may none of them try to drown us in our own oceans. Oh, that reminds me; here’s a poem for the season. It’s called “Spring” because duh (I am clever like that):
Riotous with vestal blossom,
the Bradford pear trees smell of semen,
that quickhope liquid, aseethe with seed.
Spring! Spring! You do not disappoint.
Not the winter-weary bursting out
of houses, knees as pale as last year’s grass.
Not the porch-hungry sitting
cigaretted, night alive with cicada thrum.
Not the trek-mad scything evening
air, skin still kissed by lingering warmth.
Yet you are sly with your treasures:
quick to thunder, deceptively chilly.
Oh! Oh! Too free with sneezes—
all your blooms a double blade, a