saturday sprawl

This is America. Saturday night in a grey cinderblock basement. Bright yellow plastic cup and I smell like saffron risotto because I’ve come to the party after slaving for the man (my wallet is full of tips about to go straight to the Citgo)

the band is loud loud and shaking the bumpy walls right up to the lightbulb dangling precariously from a wire over the bass player. I tongue my cranberry juice and bob.

God I’ve known these people forever and that’s the good thing about being the one to leave, you can find the stability where you want it and when

The boys do an encore though no one calls for it. The frantic drumbeat fills the tiny room and people wander in and out from the backyard, kissing and talking and nodding to the girl in the blue dress and curls. And a light glares in from the door and the music cuts off. An officer with a southern accent thick as my ankles says

‘we need to get those cars out of the road
you’ve already got the weed going, lets clear it out’ and everyone heads for the door

on the way home its 75 miles per hour and my speakers tell me to go to vision and wake up with a stranger. I turn the radio to hip hop. because I can. and I fall asleep alone to the last five minutes of saturday night live.

past

whoever said
you can't
go back
to the past
was certainly not from a small southern town

but he was
most definitely
optimistic.

berlin

we made love in berlin on the his-and-hers down comforters, your dimples bigger than ever (like my smile)
i imagined bilingual children running through heidelberg
i was hurting in more ways than one
(i could tell you could sense it, the tension in my hips)
but yourfingers felt it all out
and when i left you for paris i

didn't

give myself to anyone, still lost in the dream of you
and those fucking dimples

god- those dimples, how that boy smiles...
when he smiles...

i'm sorry to say the bruises are still missing
my skin feels better when its blue

the sexiest boarding pass ever