Every afternoon,
I pull up to the red light by my house,
And if the light had sentience,
It would catch sight of me pause my podcast,
To hear the Stevie Ray Vaughan bleeding from his speakers,
And it would see me roll down my window,
To inhale his cigarette chem trails,
And it would see me muse to myself,
It would catch sight of me pause my podcast,
To hear the Stevie Ray Vaughan bleeding from his speakers,
And it would see me roll down my window,
To inhale his cigarette chem trails,
And it would see me muse to myself,
About how many queer women are dating
Men they want to be,
Men they want to be,
Or at least men whose lives they want access to:
The blessings by which we condemn ourselves.
The blessings by which we condemn ourselves.
Every morning,
I pull my phone charger out of my phone,
Like the pin of a grenade.
And as the morning slowly explodes into being,
I turn to her.
All she gives me is space - empty space on which to
Propagate my own thoughts.
How strange and wonderful - to gift someone empty space.
As the primary subject of my poems,
She is fully aware that she is actually
Just immortalizing herself,
With words of prosciutto and honey,
To exist in lines like:
"My baby smells like angel dust, I'll call that heaven scent".
