We should just try to be out here
before the superheroes gone mad show up,
and take us to one of those new-age fetish clubs by helicopter.

Leaving early is fine by me. I’ve never really been a big fan
of riots for the sake of finding love, meeting people
who remember video arcades and phones with cords.

And the kids aren’t as romantic as they think they are,
and the soundtrack has all these visuals
that just don’t make any sense being there.

I guess they just want to watch the world burn.
Like that line in that movie that made enough money
to build a soup kitchen in a strip club.

Or a strip club in a soup kitchen. We never did work out
which one would make more sense. We were too busy
tumbling head-first into the silence of two awkward space invaders.
Realizing at the exact same time that what the other was saying
and what was going on in those sort-of dreamy eyes
were two completely different monsters of charm and scope.

We shouldn’t be here. We should be checking in
to a cheap Manhattan hotel for the weekend.
We should be trying really hard to walk competently,
and not talk over the other out of sheer adrenaline.

What in the hell is wrong with this place?
I’d marry you even sooner than I’d like to
in the romantic empire of your choice,
if you could figure out some way
we could run time like a fixed fight.

One where the challenger can smile with electric shocks,
and where the champion can feel the wind through his hair
when the wind rips the roof ride off the best ride in town.

We can’t do a thing,
but I have evidence, scientific evidence,
that we can do something about this place.

It’s the same old trouble here. The birds here
have children who fly into the exact same
power lines their parents did.

Do we need this kind of thing?

Wouldn’t you rather kiss me,
as though a thousand crazed admirers are rushing to say hello,
in a place where the license plates are moving by too quickly
for us to figure out where we are?

I’ll love you for a long time. Even if we stay in this parking lot dance hall
until the fall lineup turns the badasses into flowers,
the harlots into pumpkins, the thrill seekers into honey that jams up
the engine of an old car, the idiots into dry words
you wouldn’t even give to a destitute greeting card.

I’d love you even if I had a lot of things to do.
I just think we’re a lot better than most of our weekends.

Well, you are. I get the construction-paper ribbon by default.

09/21/2012

Posted on 09/22/2012
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