The Faux Pas Press #52

The Faux Pas Press #52

By Jason Fresh

For the home-comings that you’ve never had, for the beers you drink all alone - smelling not the fragrance of a lovely woman but the accumulative stank of your own farts beneath the covers; for the many cheers you’ve longed to raise your loved ones who know nothing of your secret crush – well, then – well, then what is the fucking meaning of it all? When all my yearnings move only a short distance through time, when a growing misanthropy swells like a virus inside, when I’ve fucked every last one – well, then – what the hell is there?

There was a dance choreographer who used to move my feet when my feet were unable. She was known, feared, and revered by any aspiring performer in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex, and anybody who knew what was good for him would listen to every word she spoke. Why? Because if you didn’t she would make you wish that you had – either by verbally berating your broken self-image or by literally twisting a testicle off, but beyond the fear of mutilation, a student would bathe himself in her words if he could. He knew those words were purchased with sweat. At some point – along the dark and mangled road of love’s labor lost in smoke and mirrors – at some point, I knew that she’d paid her price. Basically, I mean that she made choices – just choices – simple choices. She’d closed out some realities and chose to live in others. That is all I can hope for – just choices – no one choice greater than the next, purchased by sweat.