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  • The Paris Review

    Charity Balls

    Dec 06, 2022 0 minutes

    I had an accident but lived in eleganceon methamphetamines and smallof paperbacksand plastic plates of breadand black cherry marmalade.Later, a career of killingtime. And wasting money.But I have always been extraordinarily giftedat being alone. At the age of fiveI thought I would never speak.It wasn’t until I was thirteenthat I knew it was true.In blond wig, old worn denim, and goldchain with plastic pink Saint Genet pendantI enter the terminal infirmary of music.And move the body as thoughengaged in infinite reenactmentsof the sacred. Murmuring, among my peoplein the ruins of the institutions of this cityawaiting dispersal of food stamps and low-cost medicines.But I always knew if I worked hard enoughI would never make it.

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