I.
We can’t get a drumstick backstage because these kids with ID badges are idiots,
but before we can even snap our chicken-licking fingers,
we board planes bound for anywhere you ask of us: Tokyo, Dubai, Henryville,
anywhere they still love us despite our transgressions,
anywhere we can turn in a full circle and get lost for days,
anywhere we can eat a goddamn piece of fried chicken without context and pictures!
We do it for all of you because you need us at our best and worst,
to feel better about yourselves and your middle-ground.
Hey, goddamn, do we look good when we’re angry!

II.
These parties can’t be serious. Homeboy by our side,
while we wait for our seventh scotch and vermouth,
says he writes, too, even has a blog! Cool, but tonight,
if your name ain’t Rob Roy, then we don’t know you!
And people wonder why we wear our Ksubi shades
at night, inside, underground, anywhere we have to lie.

III.
She can’t love us, can’t carry us any longer,
and we can’t handle the cold winter
alone, without a devil in a dress to warm us,
can we?
The cars, the clothes, even the fucking music
feels useless if the muse refuses
to return any of our messages:
Just wondering if you like it.
Each night we stay up later than the last
to find out when we’ll feel good again,
like children listening
for reindeer on the roof.
Oh, what is was to be natural.

IV.
April air is so fresh, I want to lace my sneakers with it!
The gloom of clouds and cold left us lost in the world,
seemed like a sack of wet sweaters strapped to our back,
but the vernal equinox, she shares our sense of humor,
lightens our load, softens the sordid soil we trod upon.
Anything is possible if a flower can grow over a grave.

V.
Can we get much higher?
We met a new love, and, for once,
we don’t need a boost or a lift to give her a kiss.