His mother put on the oilsheet. ~ Tuesday, October 6, 2026

That had the queer smell.

That a word, over centuries, changes
help me to understand happy and gay
and now what is queer is no longer strange
that what may be queer may be oranges

had I said your daughter or son, the case
as it may be, respectively, reversed
différance, Jacques, boys are girls, girls are boys

theater of disguise, your children raise
hope to generations sadly effaced
enervated as history decays

quaint, provincial ideas with each sphere
unconcerned, yet unhappy, got a guy
eagle scout amongst booksellers, unhinge
every door, each portal to a new space
room after room, where to end up, aspire

smell the oilsheet, queer Freudian mother
maybe, objet petit a de Lacan
empty, unattainable, to gather
leaves in autumn, craving, never again
language speaks volumes on the trade in spice

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