The lesbians never made it to Castro Street.
We heard hoards used to congregate there,
but Megan collapsed from the excess weight
of impotent rainbows. The Tenderloin
balanced us on its tongue, wouldn’t swallow
or spit us into empty Indian food buffets
until Bernest bent at the waist, writhing
in post-humor afterglow’s side-splitting
perpetuation of his ceaseless laughter.
"We're doing it." Our chant a manifesto
of a weekend where getting weird
meant that I would be the only one
taking off my clothes.
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