Two Pieces by Michael Frissore


They order scotch on the rocks until they shit Michelangelo’s David. He glances Wanna fuck, she
does a Groucho Marx impression using the tampon that fell out of her purse. There are dirt and
leaves all over the floor of his room, and a refrigerator, no door. In the kitchen he bends over
like her father – head first into the open oven. Like his own father. She can’t win here. She
spanks him and says Move over.


Her moustache is sexier than any man’s, including Rollie Fingers. Many hover, wanting to pluck,
thinking it’s painted on. Others ask her where Higgins and TC are. Still others are her son, her
mechanic, people who gave her blumpkins before she became a she. Their hands retreat, hoping
her ‘stache won’t eat their beards. She laughs because she knows this is a Woody Allen line.
Still it hurts because that’s how she lost her beard.

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