While Binge Watching The Twilight Zone, We Talk Foucault
Some friends seem to go on forever about how things will get better/things will become great again/things will return to us.
I see flames and people within a vast growth of spreading embers and I come to the conclusion my friends don’t know I’m a faggot. They ignore, at least forget, my reality.
I ask: what things do they speak of are supposed to re-become again? I ask: who do they mean when they mention us as though I’m included?
A gentleman on the corner today is arrested for loitering / homelessness; I think he was ushered into a squad car because he was both without reason / the pitch of 3 am.
The televisions bland as wet birch bark save for when the news erupts: pyres begin lighting themselves. The digital clock makes its silent sweep inside itself, pushing seconds into every stillborn day. It sounds like the countdown for a bomb I know is intended for me and all of us othered, slighted, surplus, needless lottery.
On the television, it is the episode where the Earth is on a direct course with the sun. Everything swelters. People go mad. People await the atmosphere to burn and peel back like the rind of some once tropical fruit.
We talk politics. LGBT coming out as spittle. Right wing alternative opinion vs. left wing liberal progression. My friends pervert the fact that we are all human. I feel like an endangered species.
On the television, the climax of the story occurs, and then the denouement is a buzz kill. It is all a dream in a world where the Earth is actually falling away from the sun, the ground becoming ice, bones breaking as though brittle as mica.
Some friends seem to go on forever about how, unknowingly or unrecognized, I should burn in hell. They wane in my vision: they sink into the blue-black mist of memory.
Samuel J Fox is a queer essayist and poet living in the Piedmont of North Carolina. He will blur your lines most often. He refuses to concede with social norms. He has been published in Five2One, Luna Luna Magazine, The Miscreant, and Maudlin House; he has essays appearing in Muse/A Journal, (b)OINK, and The Avenue. You may find him at your local coffee shop, or at www.samueljfox.com.