Listening to U2 with the fat still on your lip—

1 February 2018

that pale patience of yours, oh, I could drive myself
crazy from this observation of condominiums to Maine,
old and bony Maine. What’s that song you’re guessing?
I guess it’s empty passion no groovier than last night’s
cigs you’ve beautifully lighted for one more china sparks
at the counter of 7-Eleven. You know what happens
to fat when fingers stay out of love, out of their silvered
stillness? Traffic lights, they turn to the eyes of the law
in tripartite colours. It’s safe and subtle, isn’t it?
How clever the fat moves in princely prose, or
in scripted smoke splitting between your Kerouac
lungs. I suppose you’re a movie star, a gorgeous
hard rain, a motorcycle of flowering acquaintances.

The kitchen sink never dirtied, you never cooked,
peeled, dreamt. But you showed me your world.
Ashtrayed the day away. That dear fat on your lip,
I loved it and I wrestled with the night pretending
it’s already 2:30 AM; that no creature of the streets
would dare say it’s another Bono song you’re slanging.
Whether Where The Streets Have No Name or Stay
is slippered on your ears, the test of music is the gape
of a new fish at midnight. Every time I finger-spelled
the words of your breath’s lyrics, you’d say there’s no
perfect word, only car park symphonies
and the heavy pulse of the runaways.

And so I learn
the basics of yesterday, smelling
the fat on your lip, its music and magic astound me—
forever guessing the beat of our endless
smoking suburbia.

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