Charles Jensen | Writer

From a new project:

Eyes sweep the room for errant no-good-niks, bright beacons of hope or hoping to isolate a simple man from his clan with their beam. The bathroom door swings. The drag queen “sings.” There are several dark corners making home to illicit maneuvers and salacious things. My ESP gets radar waves from every dick in the room. Echolocation. Movement is intuitive. Booths overflow with pairs of legs. Denim goes in and out of style with spontaneity. We’re teetering on the edge of the world. The drag queen “sings.” Ice goes to seed in small glass gulags. Futility. There is nothing left to love.