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Notes on Seroconversion

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Notes on Seroconversion Then & only then was it made clear: I was to be no different than the rest stepping out to toke menthols at the curb, standing tall & slack-jawed as we joked about our aging forms—this fresh stretch mark, that odd crash course—did you know there was more than one way to snake a drain? to sump a pump? to earn one’s crust?—eventually snuffing the butts to reenter the song & hall with an edged finesse, as seen in certain sub-sects of eels—the swarm of us, looking just as lithe & cosmopolitan beneath the stroboscopic lights; fueled by syrup & ice & salt on the rim & in these stolen seconds, when the self-loathing lowers its pitch, who wouldn’t be convinced they could exist: bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, not subject to bad trips or high rent or low T cell counts or tear gas or squalor— who wouldn’t be convinced, utterly convinced, to live might always feel like this: like cupping rain water like whetting an old knife or the scent of petrichor like a swig of olive oil like a mid-afternoon stroll barefoot atop a lake bed, drained in a distant colonial age around us, the invasive feather grass remains itchy & thigh-high & we, the sick-not-dead, forget we’re distinct, our blood fecund as the mud upon which our tombstones will one day cling
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