Charleston in late January feels like
the Northeast back in June.
Atmospheric reverb melts
muscles and all chords pull my hips.
My torso jumps to “Jeff Guitar.”
I’m all black lace and fringe and velvet and grunge.
The band is concentrated tongues,
black light lit veins, the image of E.T. hugging Bin Laden,
and double M’s writhing to form an eight-armed Demi-God.
This van is not a rental. Get on the roof. Screw Triangle.
Jameson? Hit this? Bubblegum? Why, yes, and thank you kindly.
Piscean intuition and watercourse travel stories (brooks and glens.)
“Oh damn girls, dry laughter, sip-a-da-ba-ba, glamour shots.
It’s all happening. Like when camp kids meet up after summer’s
over. Our bonfire was floral flavored smoke and “That Other Shit”
became the closest thing to a camp song. I was there in a backyard
in Philly. I was there. When the backseat van-fort burned down
with the roof rules, I received indemnities. Not a casualty
of summer secession, but an interim citizen. This is the public
spirit of a novel nation-state. I am not a tenant of the comatose
countryside. I am not an ex-ally and am more than an ally’s ex.
All the highways and the venues and the pit stops
mapped this. The rapture never went down. This is