thanks for letting me listen to my music

Too far to trace Charleston lightning from mid-flatland to our California 69 boy in the ravioli game secret of your old college friend dunce momma hockey stick years back when then you had done the school thing, not me who not freed from sharing in the Carolina smiles and insisting old fads, fast food, and western sun passing through now other flatlands—other lands altogether—with “new solar homes” and me questioning thoughts of the frequented stops—remember Charleston?—trace those hills now but with different strokes (amigos): no virginity no Spanish to go home to—no home at all it seems besides unknown feathers and Hunter and the goddesses’ legs of earth with even hearts too open to recall on this day