Been there. One drove a cab. One was a maid in a hotel who never went to work because we were more fun to hang out with. The All Too Usual Question is inevitably What If Someone Gets Jealous. Someone will get jealous. I’m thinking the nuances here all have to do with identity. Identity is an idea. It is not sex. Identity is itself what drives the nuance. One of them could dance. One of them could sing. One of them fixed your car. One of them was a sex worker, four were poets. No one ever said And One Of Them is a drug dealer. All of us were broke. Not unlike sex as a behavior (gender is not a behavior), Politik Allegiances were assumed. Someone has to do the dishes. I did not like tripping over naked bodies. I was the only autistic, but I usually am, anyway. Kids: Poverty is what ruled, predicated on showing your parents this could be done, our Alcatraz, and I am going to go into my room now, and slam the door. I have never taken drugs in my life. In Magic Circle, your kids would tell on everyone. It hit us. We had a mimeograph machine you cranked. We could staple poetry books together. A collection, of course, featuring us. Trick on down to Fisherman’s Wharf where the tourist tug boats filled with families – everyone loves poetry, right – Who Loves Poetry Who Loves Poetry. The crowd was packed tight. But dollar bills started being pushed in our poet faces. Our children are now all published writers. They still want us to carry them on our Angel Island Shoulders.