Light the lasers! Turn up the fog! Prop the door with a cinderblock, ignore—for once on
purpose—the record winter heat. Let a duct-taped laptop chop and screw primordial soup,
let beats blast like broken filters: chipi chipi, draped up dripped out, bidi bidi bom bom.
Let bongos hump air opaque with pheromone confetti. Let it be happy hour.
The city is a two-headed lizard scaled with private parking, the mist is full of drones, particulates
and used blue gloves—
but here, may we get super SUPER weird. May pipeline moguls buy juicebox after juicebox
of bubbly for trippy cholos in bolo ties. May loafers, Jordans, steel-toe Westerns and huaraches
share buckled linoleum, denim hips kiss cufflinks till hazy dawn. May all awkward flesh
shimmy on the present’s acid-eaten rim—Papi,
yours and mine in particular. The way you irradiate the room makes my eyes water. Before your
Suburban mutates into a pumpkin and we scuttle off to separate bunkers, let’s dance. I’ll
be the last grindable abdomen left on earth, you be the neon serum with the hazard sign:
let’s repopulate the floor with our footfalls, strip
to our tracking devices, for one last lunar half-life skinny-dip in the star-clogged
catchment pond, go down as weird as Houston.
JP Allen is an MFA candidate at The Johns Hopkins University. His poems in English have appeared in Cactus Heart, After the Pause and elsewhere. A series of his bilingual micro-stories was published in Minificción y Nanofilología (Iberoamericana-Vervuert 2016).
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