Lake Inez

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new dish!
yukon gold mashed potatoes, very good butter, cream of mushroom soup,
roasted & pickled cremini and beech mushrooms, sansho peppercorn, sourdough breadcrumb persillade, ‘Portrait of a Wistful Timothee Chalamet at the Met Gala’ purchased from facebook marketplace (he tunes out the paparazzi for a sec. a learned behaviour once you’ve achieved his level of fame. when timothee was a boy who spelled his name timothy (presumably) he never dreamt he’d make it this far. not because he didn’t believe in himself the way most little kids do - unfettered, delusional, unmarred by the harsh realities life has in store for us all - but because he simply lacked the scope to dream this big.
but it wouldn’t mean squat if he had no one to share it with. impervious to the flashing bulbs and journalists screaming his name he instead gazes horizonward. he wonders if kylie is staring at the same horizon. if she’s thinking of him. if her gratitude is a vibration of warmth like his, one that tingles from her scalp to her spine and down into her toes jammed hastily into tonight’s custom jimmy choo flats. if she too realizes the gravitas of what they share, of what binds them, and if she too feels it all in this moment, a moment just like any other moment, except that it’s not, he thinks, cause it’s this one, ya know? he sighs, softly, and accidentally lets out a little fart. he wonders if anyone heard it. he wonders if he can create a similar sound by dragging his choo’s on the concrete. one just close enough - and ambiguous - to convince the paparazzi that maybe, just maybe, that was the sound they heard previous, too. then he thinks, ‘no, you know what? everyone farts. even those lecherous paparazzis, even me, and maybe even kylie’. he then stops, gazes toward the horizon, and wonders if maybe, just maybe, back in calabasas, kylie’s doing a little fart too.

cross the sweat threshold at 9am
let it all ooze out of u
reject standards of beauty
glisten in the heat
YOU ARE FREE