my dear @disarmd, today i had the unfamiliar sensation of writing hockey fic about two gentlemen who have not been tragically driven apart. i can only hope i have captured the special bond you describe so eloquently here:
Sidney is so difficult!!! he is super fussy and
superstitious and ONLY HOCKEY THAT’S IT THAT’S THE ONLY THING. he didn’t even
have a smart phone! GENO HAS INSTAGRAM. they’re sort of theoretically competing
to be the Star of the team except that Geno doesn’t care that Sidney gets the
most recognition because he doesn’t want all of the attention EVEN THO HE GOT
LEFT OFF THE TOP 100 PLAYERS OF ALL TIME LIST but then maybe Geno could teach
Sidney how to be more human ;________; Maybe no one understands sidney like
geno does ;______________;
warning for a complete lack of violent conflict and shattering loss!
One day Geno was in the park petting dogs and handing out
lollipops to small children. Every once in a while he would do something cool
like jump really high in the air, and then he would wave happily and call out,
“Did you see that? I’m the best!” at whoever was
After a couple of hours of making his fellow human beings
happy, it was time to go win a hockey game. But before Geno could head for the
exit, he heard the sound of ice cracking. Then, in a burst of blue light, a
portal opened in midair and an alien being stepped out. He looked reasonably
human, but he was vibrating with an extraterrestrial level of tension.
“Hi!” Geno said. “Nice to meet you, welcome
I am failing so much today. I’m failing at being kind and I’m failing in school meaning I’ve handed in two terrible papers. And that was just today. Now I have an hour and 20 minutes to let go of that feeling so that I can start from scratch and do better at my new job. No pressure. No pressure at all.
To the white girl at the poetry slam who wore
a dashiki crop top:
do not ask me if i am slamming. or if i ever performed before. do you not see how my glance is now glued to the bottom of my boot where i imagine my face being smothered, how rubber and leather would somehow crush me better than you. i’m not mad about the topknot, or how you had to touch my bicep to tell me how cool my jacket was, because it was animal print and i thought you were talking about my flesh.
do not ask me if i am a poet. if i’m nervous, if i have done this before. do you not see how quietly each of my replies scurry just below a whistle because talking to loud to white girls in bars get black boys like me killed.
do not ask me if excited. this performance doesn’t require excitement, it requires me not shoving fingers down my own mouth in frustration at my own body’s inability to call you out, to proverbially snatch you.
do you not see how you have cut me at the waist, how you only use me to accentuate your hips and fashioned me with denim from cotton, you know nothing about.
do you not see the performance right now, each question, each bout, each round.
do not ask me if i am slamming. because for now, for you, i am only sacrifice.