Fans, cheering for a compromise. An under-employed celebrity on a boat-sized waffle, performing leg thrusts, covering himself in syrup.
It’s like showing livestock in a radically public environment.
Well, cross my legs over a mountain. Between his thighs, a star––a compressed fitness ball, the light scattering into blinding junk through space.
The body can be purely functional, like a chair.
If I empty myself of music, will they provide a cooking show?
The comfort in knowing we are all connected by deletion; the men, an obedient fabric, faces blank and primed for embroidery.
One of those shape-shifting Los Angeles parties where you run into the waffle guy.
Pasta in the hallway, pasta in the bedroom, the sauce is endless and bright––my little red carpet, my pomodoro.
Dreams swiftly became reruns, filling up the air. Me endlessly chopping vegetables, small potatoes.
Let’s pretend to have no hard feelings until it becomes the truth.
So that when all truth collapses, we feel the confusion on a deeply personal level.
We moved beyond our confederate childhoods; many windows to replace—
It took a forest, a quarry, the sand of entire beaches spun into glass.
If we drift through each other, are we ghosts or overcorrections?
We dress in pastels by the ocean. If you ask me when I’m purple to reflect, you will find that I am purple.
Catch me in the shifting, in the moments of growth and decay. My light will reflect with the lumen of a thousand pickups.
Remember the old playground? It melted over the weekend.
The children bled the land. They took the wolves and broke them into transportation, rode them to the edge of the coast, where their greed met fantasies of surplus, where it all turned in on itself and the world wanted more, yet less, of us.
If egg white, if sea foam, if teddy bears and Q-tips, the shore returns the history of our intention.
The ship glows. Bring out the armchair and watch it burn.
Stagger through the ocean; wet t-shirt, clear contest, gun rising from the water.
We have dissolved here, among the fading reefs––that deep sadness sublimated as anger, that white male terrorist look.
We will all be inadequate and out of options as earth, water, and sky lean toward us and show us ourselves.
Drew Krewer is author of the chapbook Ars Warholica (Spork Press) and co-edits The Destroyer. His work has appeared in Troubling the Line: Trans and Genderqueer Poetry and Poetics, Diagram, Afternoon Visitor, and Dream Pop, among other publications. He holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Arizona and lives in the desert.