it was not love
that made me put on
a little black dress
high heels + nylons
it was not love
in that hotel room
I’m not sure what it was like
tho you liked my white ass
you liked me on my knees
you liked my mouth on you
and I did too
you called me names
+ I said yes
tho in public
we never would have talked
you could not call what we did
what you did to me
making love
it was not love
but I loved it
Black sky – yellow bolt – CRACK!
Block the moon! POW!
There were never any questions
About who the villains were when I
Was your super hero toon girl.
And who was in your power posse??
Me! That’s who!
One night after drinking too much
Pink boy pony glass sugar wine,
You left the punches dangling,
Like a participle,
Like a spinning penis,
Like a stay-tuned-next-week,
Like a hole in the script,
Like an uncolored Sunday comic.
You already lost the gist of your
Five star law suit with the Times.
And then you lost me.
I made demands:
A seventeen point checklist.
So I popped the corn – POP! and
Slushed trails home in the snow. SQUISH!!!
But I did like being your ingenue –
“The one with the good tits,” you said.
I miss the son I never knew.
He was slated to be my special guest star.
“We must wait for his voice to change,” you said.
But I knew, when laundry is
Prioritized over coffee,
One becomes a weekly TV rerun,
A strip mall stripper,
A blue-haired cartoon Pulitzer runner-up.
Yes, there were rumblings of a movie back then,
A book deal of sorts,
Always discussions.
What ever happened to
Sarah Silverman anyway?
I buzzed, then turned and looked up and down the street as you do when you think you’re guilty of something.
There was no response, and I buzzed again. The silence was weird. I knew Jane was home. She’d just called me. I stepped back onto the sidewalk and looked up at her apartment window, as if I thought I could see into her apartment and see what she was doing. That was two things I’d done that weren’t me. The thought flashed through my mind that I would start yelling, “Hey, everyone! I’m a material witness!” Things apparently go in threes. That wasn’t the third thing I did that made me look suspicious. It was the suitcase.
I went back to the apartment entrance and buzzed again.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Who do you think it is?”
She buzzed the door open, and I went upstairs.
The door of Jane and Jon’s apartment was open, and I went in. Jane was failing to close the zipper on a suitcase. She looked up at me. “Close the door.”
“Well, of course,” I said. “What the hell happened to your face?”
There were a few cuts, and bruising had started.
“What the hell do you think happened?”
“No, I mean, you know… What was it this time?”
“Same shit. He was drunk, went over all the same shit. About having a kid. Me workin’ at the Crown and workin’ late all the time. Shit, I gotta work. He’s not bringin’ in a lot of money. And Mom and Dad don’t like him. Same old shit.” She paused. “And you.”
“Me? What do I have to do with this? Never mind. Is he dead?”
“Yeah, of course he’s dead, you asshole! I told you that!”
“All right. Calm down. Have you cleaned up?”
“I think so. Go in the kitchen. Check everything.”
I went into the kitchen. The floor was clean. No blood on the cabinet doors. None on the counter. Without thinking, I looked in the fridge and the oven. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Everything looked OK. There were three large knives on the draining board. I looked at them carefully. There were spots of blood on one of them. I ran the hot water, took the J-cloth hanging over the faucet, wiped the knives, dried them with a musty dish towel, looked at them carefully again, returned them to the knife block, put the J-cloth and dish towel in my pocket, took out another J-cloth from the cabinet under the sink, smeared it with dish soap, rinsed it, hung it over the faucet, found another dish towel in a drawer, wiped the clean counter with it, and threw it on the draining board.
I went back into the living room. Jane was sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. I looked around, saw no evidence of what she’d done. She’d told me she’d killed him in the kitchen, and I believed her. I hadn’t been sure she would remember exactly what she’d done, but I was now convinced.
I sat beside her and looked at her. She didn’t react.
And then a thought hit me like lightning at the top of a tree. “So, where’s Jon?”
She looked at me, then nodded toward the suitcase.
“Jesus,” I said. “We gotta get it outta here.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“That was a lot of work,” I said. “Good job.”
“My work experience at that butcher shop helped.”
I laughed. That was funny.
I went over to the suitcase and tried to move it. It was really heavy as you can imagine when it’s full of a flabby two-hundred-pound man.
I checked the bathroom and bedroom. Everything looked sloppily normal. I went back to the living room.
“Get that and give it to me,” Jane said, nodding toward a bowling ball bag in the corner.
“What’s in there?”
She just looked at me.
“Jesus,” I said. I picked it up and gave it to her.
Jane murmured, “I couldn’t fit all of him in the suitcase.”
I dragged the suitcase to the door. Some blood oozed out of it, and I wiped it up with the J-cloth and dish towel I’d had in my pocket. I opened the apartment door. No one was in the hallway. I pulled the suitcase to the stairwell. Jane followed me with the bowling ball bag after locking her door. This was definitely the third stupid thing.
A stairwell. How the hell was I going to get that downstairs?
Turned out that wasn’t a problem. Jane pushed the suitcase, and it bounced down the stairs to the front door. I followed it, wiping away blood spots as I went.
Jane opened the front door, and I dragged the suitcase down the walk to the street. I struggled to keep it upright on its four flimsy wheels. A good Samaritan came along and asked if I needed help.
“No thanks,” I said.
“That looks heavy,” he said. “What’s in it?”
“Dead body,” said Jane.
The Samaritan laughed, and shuffled away.
“Now what?” I said.
“Bus station,” said Jane. “Throw it on a bus, take it as far as it goes, weigh it down with rocks, throw it into a river or preferably a lake, and hope for the best. Jon had told everyone he’d always wanted to go to South America. Maybe this time he did.”
“Shit, you have this worked out.”
“For at least five years. You know that.”
“Not the details.”
Jane leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek.
“You’re an asshole,” I said, and laughed. Going to the bus station was possibly the fourth, or maybe the fifth, stupid thing. I’d lost track.
After a while, we reached an empty garbage-filled lot where homeless people sometimes hung out around a barrel fire when it was cold. Jane took some newspapers out of her pocket, crumpled them up and threw them in the barrel. Then she found some discarded scraps of wood and threw them in too. She took out of her pocket a can of lighter fluid, squirted it, lit a match, threw it in, waited for ignition, then threw the bowling ball bag in after it. She watched it for a moment with a look on her face I couldn’t identify.
Further down the road, we rolled the suitcase into the bus station, a grimy rundown place as bus stations have completely become in the twenty-first century now that there aren’t that many of them left anymore.
We put the suitcase at the end of a row of beaten-up vinyl seats. Jane went to buy the tickets. I went to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face a few times but it made no difference.
When I returned to the waiting area, the suitcase was gone. I looked around for Jane, and she was standing at the entrance, looking outside. I went over and joined her. Out in the parking lot, some guy was dragging the suitcase away as quickly as he could.
“Well, there’s a thing,” Jane said.
She stepped outside and I followed. We watched the guy open the back seat of a car. He picked up the suitcase and threw it in. He was obviously in good shape. He got in the car and drove away.
We stood there for a while. Then she said, “I wonder if he’ll be able to work the zipper.”
Jane lit a cigarette for the first time I’d ever seen her have a smoke. She looked at me. She said, “You’re a good brother.”
“Thanks. You know I’m adopted, right?”
“I still have two tickets to nowhere.”
I got drunk on Sunday instead of taking my wife to Mt. Lemmon to see the snow. I was ready to take her the previous Sunday but she didn’t feel well and she said, Next Sunday, Ok? And I said, Ok. Then I got drunk. I was relieved because really on Sundays I just want to get drunk. That’s what Sundays are for, I figure. I don’t want to go to Mt. Lemmon and see the snow. I know what snow looks like and I know what snow feels like. It’s cold and wet and we aren’t going to go sled riding, we’re not 12-years old. At most we’d take a picture of it and in the picture it would not seem cold and wet like it really is. A picture might say a thousand words but most of them are lies.
When I closed myself in my computer room and opened my first beer at 8 a.m. she got up and made a bunch of racket in the kitchen to show me how she felt about the situation. I was smart enough to carry the whole 18-pack of Coor’s Light into my room so I didn’t have to keep running to the refrigerator. I don’t mind if the beer is room temperature. When I had to take a piss, I used the garbage can where I toss my crappy poems and cigarette butts. When it quieted down and I knew she was back in bed staring at her phone, I peeked out. She’d cleaned the kitchen and bathroom to gleaming and used a whole bottle of bleach. She even cleaned the refrigerator, which was empty except for an opened can of refried beans and some tortillas.
She cut sex off 2 years ago. She has bladder pain and says sex hurts. She blames me for it. She thinks I ruined her bladder from fucking her too hard and too often. For a long time, we had a great sex life, at least I thought we did. She seemed to enjoy it. Maybe she was faking it. She’s been to over 30 doctors and none of them can find anything wrong. Some say early stages of menopause. Some say she needs a shrink. Some say it’s just one of those things. One of those unpleasant things that happen to people when they get older and there’s not a damn thing to do about it.
Later that night when I joined her in bed, I made the mistake of touching her leg. She went into hysterics.
“Don’t start with me!” she said.
“What? I didn’t…”
“JESUS CHRIST!”
She got up and gathered her blankets and pillow and stormed into the other room. She’s done this a few times recently. She will sleep in the other room on the floor rather than sleep next to me. The first couple of times I followed her and pleaded with her to come back to bed. Now I just let her stay there.
The next day, Monday, was my birthday. It’s been a long 53 years, 22 of them with her. It started out so good and then it all went to hell. Same old story. I had to go to work. We both did. We both start at 5 a.m. and so we get up around 4. She used the bathroom first and when she came out she wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“There’s nothing for your lunch,” she said.
“I know. I’ll buy a sandwich at the gas station.”
Then she left without saying goodbye. Off to McDonald’s where she eats as many free egg mcmuffins as she wants. She’s gained a lot of weight since she started working there a year ago, and has acne around her chin from standing over the greasy grill. Sometimes she brings home a hamburger for me. That’s how I know she’s not mad anymore.
I think about the past a lot. That’s what old people do. I had been reading the philosopher Seneca, who said you should “always be the same man,” but that’s not easy when time is chipping away at you. For 5 years we lived in Mexico. We sold our house in Tucson and bought a place in Puerto Penasco. My wife is Mexican and it had always been a dream of hers to go back and live near the ocean. That dream became my dream. We paid 22 grand for a piece of property that had 3 dilapidated apartments on it. We spent another 20 grand renovating them. We lived in one and rented out the other two to tourists. We were way down on the cheap end, but we made enough money to live on and for 5 years we did not have to wake up to an alarm clock. After cleaning and laundry and yardwork, I went to the beach almost every day. I could walk to the tiny grocery store up the sandy road. Cigarettes and beer were cheap. We planted a fig tree and a mango tree in our little walled-in yard and sat out there in the evenings. We hardly ever argued and had the hottest sex imaginable. We both lost weight and her brown ass never looked so good. I had the most vivid dreams and wrote poems about them and felt like the luckiest man in the world. I was ready to stay there forever.
Then the pain started. She quickly went through all the doctors in Puerto Penasco and we shut down the rentals and went to Hermosillo to stay with her mother. No doctor in Hermosillo could help her either. Nobody could understand this. I didn’t handle it well. I felt like it was all some kind of ruse to try to get rid of me because she didn’t love me anymore. The days became endless arguments and tears and long agonizing periods of silence like a eyeless salamander slowly meandering through your guts.
She wanted to move back to Tucson and see the doctors there. We left our place and found a slumlord rental on the south side. The prices had tripled since we’d left and we were flat broke after the deposit and first month rent. She enrolled in the state health program and got a job at McDonald’s. I scoured Craiglist until I found a job picking up trash. They called it a “porter” but all I do is pick up trash. Everything has a new fancy name, but it’s still the same old bullshit.
It’s the kind of job you can do hungover. On Monday morning, I got in the beat-up Nissan work truck and went to the shop to clock in. I pressed my thumb on the machine on the wall so it could read my thumbprint and then it said, “Thank you.” I hit my first site, Sprouts natural grocery. Mondays are always the worst after the weekend shoppers and I got to picking with my Nifty Nabber litter picker-upper and lifting the full plastic bags of garbage out of the cans and trying not to let too much juice drip on my pants and shoes. It usually took an hour or so for my carpal tunnel to ease. A wonderful aroma came out of Sprouts, some early baker in there making something delicious. The homeless people had thrown all the garbage out of the cans and dumpsters, as usual. It was cold in January and I was hoping it would dip below freezing and maybe turn some of the homeless people into icicles. You would think that the sight of homeless people would make me appreciate what I had and how fortunate I was and be thankful. But my mind didn’t work that way. I had been homeless before and I knew the truth: being homeless isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s pretty fucking great. You have zero responsibilities. Get up when you want, go to sleep when you want. Food is never a problem in America. All in all, it’s a relatively easy and healthy lifestyle. There are some inconveniences of course. Like where to take a shit. Now it was my job to clean up the homeless peoples’ turds. For this I was provided a snow shovel. I found the turds in all kinds of places but behind the dumpsters was the preferred spot. The turds of homeless people were almost always incredibly articulated and firm, which was yet another reason to be envious.
I always felt better after I had finished my first 4 sites and the sun was coming up, about the time I got to Supertarget. Supertarget was the dirtiest site on my route, even worse than Walmart. I know that in general our society is guilty of creating tons of garbage but on a personal level I thought that people who casually threw garbage on the ground were detestable vermin. I hated the fact that after 53 years I was in this position. Seneca said there is no labor that is dishonorable and that happiness is in the mind. Sooner or later we’d all be dead anyway and rich people suffer their own kind of spiritual vacancy. Easy to say for Seneca, whose idea of exercise was being carried around on a litter by his slaves to “shake up his bowels.” I walk 12 miles a day at this job. I wore my wife’s Fitbit one day to prove it. Sometimes my feet were so sore from tendonitis I could hardly walk and had to call in sick. Pain will either pass or it will kill you. I liked Epictetus better than Seneca. At least he’d actually been a slave.
Bryan Adams was singing on the old-folks radio in my truck: “Ain’t no use in complainin’, when you got a job to do, spent my weekends down at the drive-in, and that’s when I met you….”
I turned it off and got out of the truck and stepped on a plastic Starbuck’s cup. As I reached into the truck bed for my Nifty Nabber and trash bucket, here came Chad in his truck. Beep, beep! Chad was my co-worker. He’d recently been promoted from porter to graffiti cleaner, which came with a 20 cent per hour raise.
He parked next to me and got out.
“Got time for a smoke?” he said.
“Fuck yeah.”
Chad was 45 years old and had long dread locks even though he was a white guy. The old dog shit waterfall. I don’t know how he could stand that in the heat of the summer.
“How’s your morning been?” he said.
“Same old same old.”
We both lit up our smokes. Somebody had spray painted “FUCK SUPERTAGET” on the side of the store.
“Fucking idiots can’t even spell,” Chad said.
“They should have stayed in school.”
“I was just over at Total Wine,” he said. “Those old fucks were lined up at the door before they even opened. Some blue hair almost t-boned me in the parking lot.”
We both wore the same company sweatshirts which were bright orange like hazard cones.
“How’s the home life?” I said.
“Fuck, my old lady’s insane. I’ve been living with her since June, you know, and I’ve been paying the mortgage. I just found out yesterday that the house is still in her husband’s name. I’m a god-damned moron.”
A fentanyl junkie wandered out of the bushes and walked up to us.
“Hey man, can you give me a dollar?” he said.
“Fuck off,” Chad said.
“Well, you don’t have to be rude,” the junkie said. He was about 20 years old, fit as a fiddle. He walked away, then turned around and gave us the finger.
“These fucking pieces of shit,” I said. “I’d like to choke him out with my Nifty Nabber.”
“I’m thinking of getting some bear mace,” Chad said.
“Didn’t your lady just inherit a bunch of money?” I said.
“She got 120 grand when her dad died. Didn’t spend a penny of it on the mortgage. It all went to fucking Amazon. She told me she’s only got ten grand left.”
“Christ almighty.”
“Plus, I’m just about fed up with her kid. He’s nineteen and won’t get a job. Plays video games all day and cries when the milk’s gone. The fucker is like six feet four and weighs three twenty. He removed all his body hair with Nair and got a bad rash. He says he’s confused about his sexual identity.”
I looked at the lettering on his truck, which said “Professional Property Maintenance. Always hiring.”
“You could get him a job picking up trash.”
“Lazy ass won’t even take the trash out of the house.”
I lit a new cigarette from the cherry of my first one.
“What can you do?” I said.
“I’m thinking of moving to Nebraska. My brother’s a welder there, he says he can teach me the trade. But I don’t know. Fucking Nebraska.”
“Yeah.”
“How was your Christmas?” he said. “I got a fifty-dollar gift card to Texas Roadhouse. Went and spent the whole thing on one meal. I didn’t even take the old lady. Big ass porterhouse, the works. Cute waitress too.”
“Mine sucked. Got in a fight with the missus.”
“Again?”
“Yep.”
“Fucking women.”
“They’re never happy.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess I better get pickin. This place ain’t gonna clean itself.”
“Ok. I gotta go back to Home Depot for some more paint. Fucking idiot gave me the wrong color.”
He got in his truck and backed out. Beep beep!
A conversation like that always made me feel better. It’s the little things. Like seeing the cute girl from Supertarget come out and eat a banana on her break around 8:30. She always stood there in the sun, so young, so beautiful. She reminded me of my wife when I first met her. She smiled at me once and said good morning. But only that one time. After that, she wouldn’t look at me. I was old but when I saw her I felt young again. She had sad lonely eyes.
Supertarget was so big I had to do it in quadrants, moving the truck around. I started in the southwest corner, one step at a time. Around each corner was another mess. I always had that little hope in my mind that I would turn a corner and see it clean and pristine, but it never happened that way. I carried the garbage bags to the dumpster, leaking out like my soul on the pavement, like the blood from Seneca’s wrists when they made him kill himself. Mostly I looked down, that was the nature of the job. But sometimes I looked up and saw the snow on Mt. Lemmon. It was like a picture, a beautiful picture of a beautiful place. But I saw on the news that the recent influx of visitors up there was creating a garbage problem. People were throwing their trash all over the perfect snowy landscape: broken sleds, drink cups, plastic bags, Styrofoam food containers. People ruin everything.
I told myself: there is a place in your mind where you can retreat and set things right, where you can be happy and nobody and nothing can touch you. This is the only thing that is yours alone, your true connection to the universe, to the infinite. What fortune does not give, fortune cannot take away. I told myself: maybe my wife will bring a hamburger home for me from McDonald’s. It was always nice to get home and see that brown sack sitting on the counter, with a little happy face on it. It almost made me feel like a kid again.
Then I walked around the corner to the next mess. A homeless person had crapped against the wall and someone had written “GOD HATES US ALL” on the sidewalk with cheese whiz.
Narcissus doesn’t see the antlers
of the murdered deer. Lips are paths,
sad flames, waves that lick his hips.
Cold green fish swim in the mirror.
Flocks of pigeons hide in the dead throat,
daughter of the arrow and the swan.
Foam hangs from his eyes,
marmoreal skin begins to drop off,
a heron cruises around the corpse.
He hears fruit-like screams in the snow,
the secret covered by geraniums.
Silk whiteness, spilled lips,
open oblivion. Eyelashes
surrender to the dream,
on an impure seashore.
Lips search for the straight
thread of life. They are slaves
of wet contours. The air bites,
changes its sound into a blond
litmus of salt lime and war waist.
If Narcissus goes through the mirror,
the waters that stir the ears boil.
If he leans on its seashore
or inclines his forehead the antlers gouge
his side. If he opens his mouth,
bees penetrate his eyes
and the letters inside
the dream fall apart.
Airwaves wrap the albino’s
harpooned skin. Color the hallways
of his memory until the minute
of silence transverses endless
whiteness in the dry flames and drizzled
leaves in water. Bees sting the wake
of his corpse, demand they be given
the gunwale of his body.
This is how the mirror found out
Narcissus took to the sky
in the middle of toxic water.
My wife’s
got me
drinking
purple tea.
Her Tia
swears by it –
heals everything,
cleanses
your whole system –
Hell,
cures cancer!
She gave
my wife
a huge
brown paper bag
full
of leaves.
My wife
boils them
in a pot
then
extracts the tea
and stores it
in mason jars.
Over time,
it condenses
into this
thick purple stuff
that tastes
like dirt water.
I have to
infuse it
with honey
and pinch
my nose
when I down it.
It’s not bourbon!
my wife jokes.
Sip it!
But there’s
no enjoying
this stuff.
It’s old age
in a mug
laughing
its way down
my throat
and landing
where the bourbon
once was.
My lady’s female friends always came over for gab fests and ate all our food and drank most of our beverages, which irritated me. The worst thing was they stayed until late into the night and took forever to say goodbye. They were always going to the bathroom to powder their noses, so to speak.
This gave me a brilliant devious idea on how to cut their visits short. I went online to the Lava Co. and ordered Thai Dragon Powder and Bhut Jolokia Red Powder, two of the hottest peppers there are. I diluted the powders with flour and rubbed them in a roll of toilet paper before my lady’s next party. I hung my trap and waited for the results. It wasn’t long before most of the women were squirming and corkscrewing, trying to dry rub their burning crotches on the couch. They were soon grabbing their purses and heading for the door. I was trying to hide my ear-to-ear grin from my quizzical lady. She knew something was up but couldn’t quite figure it out. When she went upstairs for her shower, I switched the paper and got rid of the burning evidence and scrubbed the toilet seat.
I sat down and laughed like hell and read my book by Pearl Sydenstricker Buck, The Good Earth. I couldn’t help pondering why John and Martha Truman named their son, Harry S. and the S. stood for absolutely nothing.
***
It’s a pleasant 68 degrees in Hollywood, California, on a gorgeous spring day in 1986. This is toward the end of the last taping of the Let’s Make a Deal television game show.
Monty Hall: Diane, go down there and take a look at your new car, just promise to take me for a ride, alright? Thank you, ladies and gentlemen for being such a great audience. I have some money to give away. Does anyone have a scrubbing sponge?
Random audience member: I do, Monty. Right here.
Monty: Okay. Here’s $100 for you. Now I’m looking for the first person with a leather belt?
R.A.M.: Over here, Monty.
Monty: Thank you, sir. Here’s a one hundred dollar bill for you. Does anyone have an eating spoon?
R.A.M.: Me, me. Back here, Monty.
Monty: That is a spoon. Thank you very much. A crisp $100 for you, as well. For $200 of this show’s money, someone show me a disposable lighter.
R.A.M.: I’ve got a lighter, hun.
Monty: Let’s see here. Let me strike it. Yes, it works. Here is your money, sweetie. You folks are on fire, how about one more hard one? I have $300 for anyone that has a needle. Not a sewing needle, but a hypodermic needle. Think shots and immunizations. Be careful looking for it now. I wouldn’t want anyone getting poked.
R.A.M.: I’m a diabetic. I have one here, Monty.
Monty: Perfect. Still has the cap on it..Great. Well folks, I’m about to get out of here. This bag’s been burning a hole in my goddamn pocket all day. Thank you all for coming out. Drive safe.
Hey
What’s going on
at the Boom Boom Room?
She’s making it happen;
she’s out of the cage!
She came from a den of thieves.
Her Mom
pickled her own heart
with hot vinegar.
& her Mom’s never satisfied;
she’s often sinister
& full of rage.
But right now,
all the lights are on.
This girl’s eyes are burning brightly
while wearing a top with cut-outs
& long sleeves
as the music plays on—
Worlds apart,
her loves go down
so much quicker
“It’s great to be ignored in stereo,”
she whines like a jesting Valley Girl
finally gaining some beach curls
from a very special Japanese shampoo.
Oh oh oh
What to do?
She’s got a famous resting bitch face
the paparazzi wants to reveal;
her curious reinvention
sputters on, as if
she came up
with the first wheel.
But when she opens up,
she’s a little genius, not a ditzy brat
with a soul of a black cat
who’s working on her next free life.
Like her Daddy
who played good on his Fender,
his fake Beatles haircut
is now wearing thin;
he never made it big
in LA or NYC.
He left his two girls home
as an afterthought—
the trip-lights, the mind benders
& the fantasies, to him
were more important
than reality.
& the cad
that came to claim her,
he was her secret lover
until she was discovered
by Hollywood
He ditched her right after
she gained the limelight.
She claimed:
“If I can’t have love,
I want power.”
Travis J. Black (He/Him) is a gay poet, writer and visual artist living in Michigan. His work has appeared in Peeking Cat Poetry, Black Poppy Review, The Sirens Call, The Chamber Magazine and the 200th Anniversary book Determined Hearts: A Frankenstein Anthology. His work often explores the mysterious, imaginative and liminal spaces that exist between identity, sexuality and being.
https://www.amazon.com/author/travisjblack
Instagram: @travisjblack
Horror Sleaze Trash 