Like most nights, a young transvestite was savaged, right outside here, his mascara and touch-up kit scattered on the fragrant new asphalt, where the city crew filled in pot holes. The street, with it's lubricious carnal minge.
First, I heard the strident, effeminate siren, "get your hands off me, motherfucker," followed with the fledgling sound of spike heels breaking on a raised square of busted side walk. The thud of a big hand bag landing someplace hard. The clarion call, "quit kicking me, milkhead."
Gender politics, in the urban jungle, is more Upton Sinclair, more Pearl S. Buck than ever. Downtown Pittsburgh is going completely post-nuclear age James Baldwin. Even the ethnic intimidation incidents have settled like moss on the antebellum gentility. Living in this hell hole is like parking your Winnebago right next to Truman Capote's and Harper Lee's squalid, rustic birth place.
I love it here. All the star dust in Hollywood couldn't make it any better.
First, I heard the strident, effeminate siren, "get your hands off me, motherfucker," followed with the fledgling sound of spike heels breaking on a raised square of busted side walk. The thud of a big hand bag landing someplace hard. The clarion call, "quit kicking me, milkhead."
Gender politics, in the urban jungle, is more Upton Sinclair, more Pearl S. Buck than ever. Downtown Pittsburgh is going completely post-nuclear age James Baldwin. Even the ethnic intimidation incidents have settled like moss on the antebellum gentility. Living in this hell hole is like parking your Winnebago right next to Truman Capote's and Harper Lee's squalid, rustic birth place.
I love it here. All the star dust in Hollywood couldn't make it any better.
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