Channeling

Your everyday was another evening blitz

when you stopped inside the shopping mall

and spent some time looking for “it.”

And once the glowing banners had you in their flow

lonely between the ads and lights,

their neon flash was shining like the moon upon the soft snow

when you paused that cold night beneath the heater
and I surrendered to your glow.

And that’s where you and I met,

but how could’ve it been for you

when everything looked brand new,

pre-faded even, and you were still pink

and I was blue?

Your everyday was a channel change

when you were open to that cold ocean outside

in dynamo light so strobe light bright.

All the hemp quilts us smokers built while standing still

and jerking it to lava lamps went

draping the black walls where strobe was on your coats

and your buttons all glowed in the dark with

the keychain movie quotes.

And our eyes palm read the vantage

as the shoppers all passed by—

Black in clothes with eye shadow?

A hat turned backwards in a bummer

summer slow?

My everyday moods depended on joints

and everyday points became video games

my friends used to play up in flames.

We were passing blunts, hearing the sitar chime

to hold the moon on a flower,

where the Hot Topic prison fence sold for a dime

a T-shirt crime and wind-up slime and

told me soon it’d be my time.

And my dreams were to-be rock star fame,

every guy plays that game—

but my guitar still sat to be played

so this one could stay in the basement

hitting himself.

And my everyday zines poured out the seams

when dreaming, just sitting there waiting for my lift.

At the doors those winter evening winds

blushed you when I was leaving,

and that was you standing outside

waiting for my blue glow to rise in your pinkened sky,

with your anarchist bracelet, your lips so fly—

my princess of the bare trees high!

But anorexic by your mirror friend,

a sexual yet pubescent end

behind the door and on the floor—

crying was your chore to enjoy it

while it lasted.

But then our everyday was another fling

once this stranger boy played a chord string

and rock and roll began to fire in your soul.

You were going to be swallowed whole

after MY “forty licks” to taste

that pinkend skin from down a different kind of bowl.

The keychains caught our pockets and pressed

into our sides for another roll!

And that’s how you and I met,

in that 3^rd floor record store—

and I think it was the winter when

we both finally found what we

were looking for.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems