Nacreous Nakedness, 1999



The iridescent sheen of Sunset Boulevard blinds the milkman, and he stumbles, but doves on duty catch him before he falls. You know it’s Christmas when a van is a parade float. Bumblebees skydive from the loquat trees. He makes out with his bodybuilder boyfriend in the middle of a paint store where "the paint faux’s itself." Fake tan and bleached teeth, morsels tasty enough to eat. His portrait disintegrates from the heat in the attic. The curator gasps as he drills drywall screws into my paintings. I run my hand across the black industrial trash can and say goodbye to Julia Child and Iris Chacon. He hangs the nude over his bed and doesn’t want to give it back, but he reluctantly returns it on a night when jasmine and skunk arm wrestle in my nose. Burgundy satin ribbons drop from a star-filled black sky and dangling on the end of each is a frozen tear that popped out of my eye.

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