A meeting rumbles in the back
room. I could be
one of them. But
I like my margin
where I can hitchhike
rides to dark dreams
and musings
about collocating
my secrets with old
punk gods. I could delve
into euphoric recall
from a passenger
side high in a flying
coffin. Repentance. It was those
black leather police
jackets that got very cool.
Erie, PA. In the end, I could not
debate away my future, never would win
any argument with this fear
of exclamation
points. You make a living
so well punctuated. I peel off
vices the way we tried them on
for size—a joint in those woods behind
our junior high, a messed-up mixology
with your father’s liquor
in your basement. Slow to get them, suddenly
shoulders drop to lean into it. I rediscover
aftertaste in a name—sour, bitter, could have been
sweet. The jingle was yours. How could we
have known I would end up holding
all the question mark sickles
in my stiffened fists
so many road trips later?
