East Village. Susan and I are walking by
John Derian. A man in a red and white
luchador mask approaches, which makes me smile.
I smile at the luchador. Luchador keeps
walking, mask reflected in shop windows.
He says You Ladies Are Looking Pretty Today!
I keep smiling. He passes, says I’d Like
To Fuck You Both! How Much?! We all keep walking.
Susan and I stop smiling, raise eyebrows toward
each other. She whispers, Do we get to keep
the mask? But what I want to know is how
I’ll hold his severed head up, if I can’t grab
it by the hair. I guess I’ll grab the laces
at the back. In my head, I have a sword.
It’s sharp, and his still-masked head is off
now, rolling here and there, a Holofernes
of First Avenue, stopping to bleed
into the dog-shit-studded pools of East
Village rain at our feet. I describe this scene
while we walk. Rage makes us feel better,
and we are back in our own selves again.
#notallluchadors
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