You should have seen my breasts inside a dress so extravagant
it was rogue among a decade
of the type of electric horticulture
these bittersweet groves were founded on, so,
yeah, I traded it right off my body
for a bottle of rum on the cleanest, brightest street corner
I didn’t think to guard my skin against because
I’m in love with a woman who doesn’t appeal to me.
Turn on the television and all you hear
is the new way of speaking
asked and answered
or the old new way of speaking now that everyone’s doing it.
Am I happy about it? No.
I adapt to the manifold balconies of California
as a symbol of liberation
when no matter how many rails we could finish from the railing
or the viewshed of a whole city against the neon of a floozy motel
I am only ever trapped inside
my own fixed vantage point or else I am
imploding, such as it does.