Sunday, April 7, 2013

Pancakes and Neckties (6/30)


The night, split open
as Macklemore told
us that we were golden
and that night we were
windows down throwing
chunks of our vocal chords
into the night, under golden
street lights. Stomachs full
of perfect golden brown
pancakes. My necktie is
a pastors hands clasped
in prayer. My hands cup
the night. The volume knob
is a Pentecostal choir.
We are the golden arch
of the covenant. This
is the birth of a moment.
We have yet to be miscarried
by middle age, still fetal
positioned to birth ourselves.
We are pancakes in the frying
pan, turning golden. We are
the unwiped tables in a diner.
We are the speedometer
and the asphalt. We are not
the cop car. We are not the exam.
This is not a promise. This is two
people, screaming in a car
turning the volume up a little bit
each time the song repeats.

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