State of Flux

“When you shouted at me

I saw my father in the second grade

Concerned and kind

But yet unable to reach me”

First:

I was riding with the three foot taller me, sinking in my seat.

Decaying leaves swept away from crippled trees that loafed,

riding the invisible broom through his open windows, fuzzy seats.

“Who is this” asked a slouched voice over the vanquishing bass.

“Bloc Party” followed by images of cul-de-sac Halloween cookouts,

shitty homemade punch and Black Lagoon Creature outfits,

sitting on a curb, pondering if ghost lived in those crippled trees,

and if they’d wear corsets and top hats, or brand shirts like mean kids?

I nodded my head in unisons with yours, blonde nods, I still do.

“We were hoping for some romance

All we found was more despair

We must talk about our problems

We are in a state of Flux”

Second:

I turned down the itty-bitty Wiccan girl’s desire for a one-night stand

in a four-star hotel with satin sheets after a pulsing rave, dead love cells

raged the highway of my veins, even if they did not, I would decline.

Instead I took him home through the empty, broad streets of Atlanta.

Every other song, “I’ve seen them live.” The street lights grooved with

my roaring tires, windows down again, letting the bronze lights dash

across us, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, abandoning the party of kings to

let the green, red, white, copper of Atlanta trance around my car

AWOL, Misfits, Maiden, Bloc Party, “We have our own rave!”

“You are damn right!” Raging highways to desolate Waffle Houses.

“I'd kill for an adventure

Just you and I in the Curzon Bar

Dancing till we knew

So all that we've learnt disappeared”

Third:

I never liked drunks until that night, building houses of celery and carrots,

Chicken broth circling the room as we held, swaying, until you jolted away.

I escorted you to the store, your feet bare, to get bottled water. I played

Bloc Party in the car, “I’ve seen them live!” You held your hand out the window,

smiling, watching my arms slide across the wheel, veins alive, escaping my flesh.

We played Sinatra at your house, you talked about live shows, dates to those

desolate Waffles houses, world travel, but you also said thank you.

I knew I had to put a ring on your finger, two paths, like the crippled trees,

merging into one, simple stacked diamond, chicken soup, allergy kiss, I still know I do.

- Alex Hawkins