On this rainy, lazy Sunday, I muse at how my paradoxical desires morph and dissipate in a manner that both exasperates and thrills me. I recount the facts of those desires in flashes of memoir, a memoir I recognize later as fiction or, well, semi-autobiographical. I think back on sexual flings and now-cold dalliances from over the years and all appear common and ordinary and not worth the sweat and breathlessness and loss of salty juices.
On this Sunday, I see steel-gray sharks and sting rays, oblivious sea turtles and the warm cerulean sea. Myriad landscapes and animals are my horizon. Men and hard blue-veined dicks and flapping mushy nut sacks always always always fail my curiosity and force tiredness, inspire exhaustion. Those skin sacks dwindle while the jungle, the ocean, the desert expand and seize me with wonder and joy. Still, I will take risks of hope and courage with both the men and with the sharks and with hope and courage, so I live.
Tonight, while creating categories within my new dive-themed move to the Caribbean blog (sex, dating, diving, all-things-Curacao), I decided to be true to myself – the flaming liberal, social justice side of myself – and include a section about that. Much of this particular section will be focused on ocean conservation but there will be many jabs at Trump. Conservatives may freely enjoy the dive-instructor-dick stories, but might want to judiciously avoid the “From the Mind of a Flaming Liberal” category. And, to kick off the new blog category, I will share a little poem I wrote just for such an occasion:
by angela perez
when trump eats breakfast
who sits next to him does he
crack a hardboiled egg on the presidential plate and pick up
greasy fried hashbrowns with his little orange nubs
does he watch t.v. while some kind of brown man fills
a crystal cup with ice cold Diet Coke.
last night did trump dream of lady pussies with
no hair and no body cajoling him
to press his cheek against a frozen window pane
and speak of joy not monstrously stitched
to that gray-gold empire where a Slavic wife scowls
in gossamer Dolce & Gabbana
is there a tanning bed in the white house
and does he tweet while shitting in the toilet
when he makes love, in what direction does his hair flow
Mr. President, do you fuck all-the-way naked or just pull your junk through an open zipper
oh people, my people, my bony heart is a graveyard of fake news and tan liars
who run away but don’t get far and then wither. Believe extraordinary me.