E Crandall

Previously on Night Court

“I wanted to glean culture from country
by not holding hands with
women who were really just girls
I went to school with” SHE says, dramatically

“Listen, They make art from what they say on TV Despite my bias, I’d hoped
I could make their art better
by wanting better art” replies LT

“Our poetica won’t take N.O. for
publicity,” SHE sighs and sighs, dying her
head back and resting her acclaimed neck along the

cool porcelain pipe, a breeze SHE’s former studio, this drafty space has
slowly transformed into a dressing room,
has become their bedroom complete with
mixing belongings: belt
buckle, hairpins, rubber mallet, mannequin

This morning LT offers SHE a free load,
maybe a little help
with her laundry—
daily sexy proposals
little square pick-me-ups
in the vast, buzzing space

She’s butch and
never spending,
says her bird tattoo wiggles
when her credit card’s maxed
LT works well
in paisley or cuffs
denim neat and clean
tight at the boot

in her self-portraits, which line
the loft walls in squares of staid color
(lately a Phoenix turquoise dominates)
SHE looks less real, more lost

you can almost feel every
edge in the room
SHE exclaims from inside
a casual polka dot bustier
“LT is my curling iron on?
LT are we having coffee?
LT you have a glorious ass”
tits about to fall out any second
legs about to curl around
anything with heat

In this scene they cannot
console one another
so why even try?
Some days
it’s better
to be broke
than broadcast

The general atmosphere of the room
is for relaxing despite being somewhat fashionably
a beacon for their work, or a life lived in the
blurred lines between frames
        a specific uncertainty about understudies

O these chicks with brains like racks
but alas
far too unknown
to be desperate,
too many wigs to ever be lonely

Justice is a small wish to hope for
when your rent is
the speed of light
                  and you are the only femme
                  making decent performance art these days

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