Autonomous/Occupied

In another life, I am loud.

I am living in the borderlands,

my soul haunting the graffiti

under an overpass.

My jeans are woven

with sweat and city grime,

and nobody cares

about my deodorant.

They understand I have

bigger things in mind.

I keep my executive function

in a duffel bag,

the faux-glow streetlamps push me

away from cosmic pursuits,

and as much as the stars inspire

me, I know

they have left me on Earth.

I split an edible with a man named Gonzo

and wax philosophic about

last stands and quiet hands.

We trade stories

about life on the outside,

life in the underbelly,

and the self-bleaching that comes

with a life of assimilation. He laughs.

I know that I’m using

the right terms to describe him.

I tell him

about the people I’ve been,

the people I should’ve been,

and the people I will never be.

We talk about art

and loss

and fire.

I get happy about my grit

and the loves I fight for,

and we agree

that period dramas are an

afterthought

compared to the present genre.

I do not elope,

and I need no words

to speak the language

of echoing sirens

fading

into the void.