not lit by stage lights and scripted,
or through grimy windows on the double deck of a bus
on my way to a park on a hill at night with stranger-friends
[spontaneity and wine overcame nightmare nerves for a view and a memory that was worth it]
I dressed for the occasion in my stompin' red Dr. Martens,
not aware that you originated them.
I ate American food on your street:
milkshake in glass and tin, fries (not chips),
didn't think you'd mind,
something tells me you understand nostalgia.
Thanks to you, I don't have to brave needles or offend my elders
to carry my symbol, my roots with me.
You really took it out of me though.
Never thought I could tire of this hippie Disneyland:
silks and scarves,
rings for fingers and bells for toes,
buddahs and bongs,
superheroes and punks,
mullets and mohawks,
florals next to spikes,
incense, leather, tea, and kung pow chicken.
KUNG POW---that's how you hit me.
A solid aesthetic knock to my senses.
I need a nap, a latte, an inheritance.
I miss you already.
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