Hybrid Florae

You left your handwriting on a restroom wall in fuchsia ink,
grimy prints from blood bitten lips       Damon & Soto, quick
to fashion James Dean – if he were bougainvillea and laced
his own lungs with hybrid florae

You’re as dirty as the street corner      I’m impatient,
anticipating what impulsive words you’ll soil next, 
tripping and crawling through sand in your mouth
and sun in a single tooth         blushing quartz of liquid
palmed and demolished in bottles of three’s

Sneak around as if you are not rich – I will watch you tan
in vintage white with an assembly of acapella falling 
from your mouth, a storm levitating right after dusk
on the cusp of a swanky desert motel fenced in by
lush and lime, like stealing taquitos to eat on the
sidewalk curb

I watch you grow around the cement, limbs –
a latitude of vines with a salty coconut chaser
impaling your remedy into a Joshua tree,
you left your number and an imprint of your tongue
on the bark – howling to yourself, hoping I would come find you.


from my upcoming new chapbook Midlife Crisis California

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