It was a direct threat to them because he wore pajamas to sleep in and it was – about class– versus nakedness which is what the other boys hang out in. He wore pajamas because it was about fighting back. If you wear pajamas, no one will fuck you because you appear to be protected by an unfuckable privilege the other children found difficult to atriculate. But they could smell it. I can always smell it, too. It’s not too nuanced. It’s a bad smell. Class. Like vomit.

It was a performance. Appearing to be with accoutrement something you were not was a dramatic pause, the intermission, and there you were, exposed, anything could happen. Everything did.

It all happens and the house is deadly quiet. It all happens and you looked depthlessly into each other, withholding nothing, hunger and desire, snow, and defence moving deathward, suspended, photographic abeyance, that dead instant, the arrested gestures. A desperate neutrality hanging in the balance.

It took a lot just to get this kid to be a little more comfortable with the bike. He had never been on a motorcycle. He was scared.

“What do you believe. Why are you here.”

He played with his french toast.

His world was about to change.  If you got it you got it you got the VOOOOOM VOOOOOOM.

He knew that everything could change.

“Comb your hair.”

Quickly.  Busts another cloud. It’s a dark, dark sea.

He looks up and finds me. But by what dim steady glow, the lost bright wonder rides him like a pony. Imagination hurls itself dividing a silence among the boys who understood that all things are hidden.

All things

Fuck me.