Being a Hypochondriac Homosexual with High Anxiety in the Waiting Room at the
Air Force Military Hospital
for Dorothy Parker
Oh, my God, I’m such a brat
Who made me such a malady?
How often in this room I’ve sat
And scanned the walls quite nervously.
The stress it puts on my blood pressure
To blend in with the other sicks.
My health is such an awful treasure
I’ll go bankrupt at twenty-six.
When the Fag Walks into the Gas Station
The greasy metal doors part open,
and a pastel-light-cream-smoke-carpet
rolls into the place like a purr.
Neon shoes glide thru like bright
green hockey pux in slo-motion.
Convenience store worker clenches,
fearful of the Broadway bomb
Fags fingers flicker thru the
candy aisle like fine flesh fishes,
lighting with a splash of jeweled ring.
Cartons of cigs fly off the stands and
into fags hands like some sort of
magic: Pixie Lung Punishment.
Spray tan fingers curl around cartons.
Fags fingers nervously spazdance around the white box.
Looks like sunbeams jostle-waltzing with a cloud.
Poor fag can only sing charcoal carols.
Poor fag can only charade a smoke parade.
Fag is a fish that swims thru the smoke.
Fag is a beautiful face behind the veil.
Fag is mourning fog.
Convenience store worker relaxes.
Hums to the checkout.
Both hearts mirrored hummingbirds.
Ben Wenzl is a twenty-four-year-old queer from Omaha, Nebraska. This August, he will compete in Boston at his fifth consecutive National Poetry Slam on the Omaha team. He recently ventured into stand-up comedy after winning a comedy battle this past April. He enjoys the company of coffee and cats. He has a coffee mug with cats on it.