you wake up at night and turn on the light
at least you are still breathing
you ditch the wheel-soaked roads of your city
seeking salacious night
you ride trains and buses, always near the front,
never exit.
You live En Route.
Electric Signals.
A Moving Fist.
Because you are
burning chrysanthemum
hollow-point
short-shirted dancer,
a broken Dove on a telephone wire,
you always try to catch the wind
Kid, we ain’t that gallant. Or British.You know this.
Every reflection is cataclysmic
when you never know if you will see
your chest
again. Your
heart-beat
is on trial by those who draw
the border of our municipalities
is also why we can’t get high together.
We both know
they’re spitting
ringing jars and jilted knives at your sternum
and your parents
can’t hear the cacophony
but keep your swag up, champ-
We both know
you are kickin’
screw-loose robin-in-the-morning
stealin’ all our darling hearts,
Keep boxing empty rooms
because we can all feel your
sucker-punch
from way over
Here,
And you know how I like a good fight.
d’aw
