I saw your pumpkin smile, half your face taken up with teeth and joy. Nights on sidewalks, summer love. A carnival romance, you know the type; here and gone -fleeting. “Do I wannnaa knooowww.” He shows off his graphix, I bat my lashes.
His positive cuneiform, magic sticks, eyes wide SHUT. The melting induced meltdown. Plucking and strumming, “Yes, you’ve got your spell on me baby!” Only seeing purple and paisley now, he wears his colours underneath tied bandana fro -lawd, and I see them now! An image I never saw burned into the retinas of my mind’s eye, a poster turned into a mind movie.
The Swedish Fish, we smoked in Rio de Janeiro with Afrikaans and Sri Lankan boys too cute to kiss. Anxiety keeps us apart, clarity brings us together. The future is meld in our hands. Astrological omens, my brother’s bee keeper, beauty stings skin deep.
and I SWEAR I’ll tell Adam Shea every time, but for three days straight this week, he has emerged, struttin’ these downtown streets. I found him, more so that he has found me, Alan Ginsberg, the man in the green tee.
2017 is the year of Wild Magic.