shot in the strings trying to cross the musical exclusion zone

i’ll keep your picture tucked under my magazines

and i’ll remember how you cleaned me like a trumpet

knocked flat by winds of top brass, we used to whip bottles at black SUVs

bars and stems and batons and beams and flags caught in razor staff

how does the party look from down there?

it might turn to brandy if you ignore it for a week or two

do you have a passport for those hips, or a license to hop?