Posted in Almost Dorothy, Themes, Travel

AWP Denver + To Queer = Bubba Gump

AWP Day 1 – 2 or 1 and/or 2: I don’t know what day it is but Toi Derricotte made my day even though I thought I misspelled her last name. It’s insane. The spelling of names and the rain that turns to ice when it rains in winter. Yesterday, I saw my girls (not my boobs), who I met a Bread Muffin years ago when mom sent me there for summer camp, or the opposite of rehab. That’s when I learned to smoke cigars and play poker with the janitorial team. I was so excited. Really. Winning more peanuts than all the older people. I didn’t cheat. I didn’t even tickle their feet. Anyway, I saw Sandra Cisneros too, and she didn’t make my day. I screamed, Sandra Cisneros, te amo! I giggled and she just smiled, or was chewing gum, or mangoes. Mr. Magoo, I swear, she didn’t even blink.

AWP Day 2: Later we went to Bubba Gump because I love gump and Brent Goodman, who I want to always call Brenda Goodmen, who told me Gump is/was the bomb, or da’ bomb depending on what part of the country you come from. Bubba makes my tummy yummy for shrimp fried in as many was as possible. Popcorn shrimp. Shrimp po boy. Double fried shrimp. Refried shrimp. Coconut shrimp. Fried breading with or without the shrimp. Fried shrimp cocktail. Refried fantail shrimp. And, my favorite, fried shrimps. Anywhere, I hope to get Steve Fellner, Charles Jensen, and a few other potty mouths to sign mom’s bra.

AWP Day 2: Before Bubba Gump, we went to queer, which is a verb (and a panel) (and a noun on Sundays) that means to make everything so much better, like Chelsea or South Beach, the Castro and Tennille, even when the skitzos want to make life dirty underwear, and not the good kind of dirty. Think shit. What I learned at AWP Denver: we’re not responsible for Whitney Houston. I still love you Whitney, but come on girl. Stop pandering to Jesus. In any world, to queer is very uplifting, especially for a puppy like me, especially when I lost my identification card in the Yogurt shop. Now, I don’t know how I’ll get home or if I want to go home. I don’t know why I’d want to go home,anyway. With all of this love and anti-love (or Antigone which I always pronounce anti gone) around me I want to erupt into a bowl of strawberries. I also want to fly a helicopter in reverse.

AWP Day 0: I came out of my shell, a little, a clam or bottleneck I am. I smiled a little and waved some. Mom said I shouldn’t be too friendly or they’ll eat me. By they, she means them. She’s nuts.

AWP Day 3 (or 4?): Denver isn’t forever. Fireflies aren’t forever. Ice cream isn’t forever. Moms aren’t forever. Not even the Internet is forever. Mom called and asked if I murdered anyone in Denver. I told her I’m not like her and that I’m a vegetarian now. I bought cowboy/girl boots. I bought a stuffed shrimp. Mom hung up. I called her back. She hung up again. I called her back again. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message. In that message, I told her about the girl I met, who is always a boy like me. Her name is PK, and has no connection with PF Changs. PK told me about her father, about the future he faces in Iraq and the silence that constricts him like a unitard when he returns from combat. She’s afraid that this time, his fourth time in Iraq, that he will lose his entire voice, even basic sounds, grunts, vowels will become inaudible. Even the ability to 000000000000000000000000. PK hopes, and I hope, when he comes back this time that he will come back a little less gump. More Bubba. Whole. If not, I promised PK I’d speak up for him, even if I’m not real and no one believes a word I say.


I'm not real, but I'm a writer.

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