The Drag Race Pentina Project
We arrived at the airport terminal;
“The trip was delightful, I had such a wonderful time until that fly buzzed over to me. I nearly fell into that depression on the side of the road, and I lost my wallet. I looked until I lost any hope of finding it and terminated any further chance of finding it. It was a little depressing, especially how it stood out in stark contrast to the delight the rest of the trip had been. All that lost by a fly, who buzzed up to my face.” He paused, looking at the plane flying down from above. “I just hate losing, really, I’m delighted to win, but it just reminds me of my grandpa’s terminal cancer. It feels like I’m battling depression again. Depression is like a fly that sneaks down your throat and drives you to the point where you’d do anything to terminate that insect malingering in your body. You’d kill yourself, losing a fight with a mere bug.” I looked away to the light above, unwilling to stare at the light reflected in his eyes. “Depression is malignant. Your winning condition is not losing, and you fly away but it catches up even at an airport terminal.”
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The final nails
were jammed into the shack in the Alaskan wilderness. It hadn’t been named yet. She considered calling it “Anus” for its inviting entrance, but she didn’t want to have an anus constantly push out trash. Trash was meant for the outside. Her nails were caked with dirt, her anus tired, but Alaska, was not done. “My name’s yours, What’s Alaska?” she breathed onto the nameless shack. “I make trash into treasure,” said Alaska, “But treasure isn’t your name. Your nails are short, your anus petite. You’re a nasty girl. Your anus is virginal. Your name is a treasure yet to be found. Let my nails commune with yours, flood the trash out of your body.” The shack shook in the Alaskan soil. A breeze flowed through, and Alaska tenderly stroked the side of the shack. “Your anus is mighty. You aren’t trash. You will find your name when you’re finished wearing your nails. When I was young, I played with Barbies
with this girl friend of mine. We’d clown around, playing on the Barbie design computer game, eliminating flawed dolls. We wouldn’t let any return from the garbage bin. I remember her dad faintly as an imposing tall man. Her dad was a giant to me. I don’t know what he thought of a boy playing with Barbie; she moved away, never to return. Those play dates led to my own Barbies. Barbies are like clowns: their faces are painted on. Barbies aren’t like clowns in that you can eliminate certain parts of a doll’s face. A doll is all or nothing, you can eliminate parts but it’s a doll in the end. I don’t remember how my dad felt about me playing with dolls. Maybe he clowned around with me, happy to see when I stripped Barbies naked. Of course, I’d return their clothes, and at that point, they couldn’t return to the store. I eliminated any chance of a refund. My Barbies lingered for a few years until they vanished, but it wasn’t my dad’s doing. It was my mom’s. She’d probably prefer I stuck to clowns. At least clowns make people laugh. They return people from the brink of discarded dads, who had been eliminated from kid’s lives. It’s no surprise we have time for Barbies. I decided I needed to learn Russian;
there was this hooker I had been talking with: she always wore red-- but I could tell she wasn’t as flexible in English. We were talking at the corner and she split for no reason. I then learned she had to do a split to make it into her sorority. She was rushing and the challenge was to prove how flexible you were, because college girls are silly, that, and hooking doesn’t pay the bills. She read me for filth, as I had claimed to be well read and I couldn’t even tell her who split from the Three Musketeers. Was I looking down on her for being a hooker? In the end, that’s why I decided to learn Russian, to show I can be flexible in mind, and not rigid. I have to cave to her flexible level, fluid in mind and body. I took to wearing red, in honor of her russian heritage. I offered to take her out for a banana split, but she declined, saying she had some hooking to do. I never bought her services as a hooker. I just knew that as her trade. I knew she was more flexible than what the word hooker encompassed. She split away from the stereotype and spat in the face of those that said they couldn’t be well read. I never ended up learning Russian. |
This section is dedicated to my poetry inspired by RuPaul's Drag Race. There's at least one poem per contestant in the completed project. All of the poems are written as pentinas.
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