After Shrikanth Reddy, After Ice Cube 

Then between us the passage faults underground.
Think: rooftop of a classic hotel hearing Marco Polo.
Then unthinkable life was clung to in LA. 
Then we asked if we were really dead or just debtors. 
Then I showed you my ugly hands. 
Then I burned myself to blue. 
Then the ink could smudge in
As you eat each other’s lungs out. 

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Then the goddammed grief. 
Then mom doesn’t die. 
Then Max doesn’t die. 
Then Chris doesn’t die. 
Then I don’t run for years. 

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Then we are old enough to cry again. 
Then exit reason. 
Then the bleu cheese gets too bleu. 
Then you have to grit your teeth at it. 
Then you run yourself out of 40 pounds. 
Then you grief fuck. 
Then you feel the comfort of caffeine 
Before you text your support system. 

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Then songs Vs. Reverse songs heard.
Then the song that incises the dead. 
Then the song catches its hare tail, Peter. 
Then the song that blurs the solid line.
Then the song tips off the greased palmed officer. 
Then the song wonders why we’re being detained. 
Then the song can’t really sing or be sung to 
From my head underground wrapped in roots. 

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Then don’t diss me in front of the new higher. 
Then we could be 14 again: first job / last breath. 
Then the burgundy shirt matches the cheshire.
Then it is lap and luxury and bumfuck and nowhere. 

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Then I curse and hear a
Herse skirt. 
The stop isn’t for me 
Because I asked you 
Not to stop.