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Genealogy by Buzz Mauro My ancestors are lounging in my living room,eating me out of crudité and home. My hardwood a lawn, my étagère a tomb- stone: The décor suits them. They intend to stay. They wear appropriate visages of doom and disarray, and though it's hard to see it through the gloom, they look an awful lot like me, I have to say. I'm not the type to summon or exhume forebears; they dropped in unannounced, undead. I must assume the purpose of their visit is to make me pay for never having taken up my duties as a groom. I pass paté, ignore their shame and wonder whom among them I should thank for cooking up the gay designer gene I cherish, mutant heirloom stowed away, secreted for centuries from womb to womb to dead-end blithely here in wit and full sashay. |
