the discovery of her writing was my renaissance
a revolution in words
permission to say anything
be anything
study everything
wreck every microphone stand put before me
to set stages on fire
whilst drinking all the bourbon in the world

commingle science with metaphor
a sister
a teacher
a mother
a peer
with no pressure involved

whose every book and poem i’ve read
right down to her thesis

i could live happily in one of her shoes
as an inconsequential scarf
about her neck
an afterthought earring
or an old leather jacket she never wears

so i reach out to her

expecting to be told
take a number

but instead

she says yes

because we share
the same vice and vocations

she recognizes my scars
and my smell
we were born to the same herd

we drink single malt scotch on the phone
and discuss
the tiny little men we screwed and married

death
birth
chickens before eggs
and raising sons

she asks me for some work

i say yes

she adores my chutzpah
and the fact i use the word chutzpah

she asks me to come west
with how deep my voice is

to explore
the northwest territory
together

listen to her Kesey stories
because every god damned writer manages
to have a Kesey story
sure as shit

and i want her
all of her
flesh of my flesh

i can taste her on my tongue

so

i say no

even as my soul
rushes the gate
to board the plane

because we’ll end up fucking

and

i need her to remain my undiscovered cuntry

i need her safe from regret

she understands
and is grateful for being considered
pristine
in someone’s mind

warm in the knowing

she will remain a god

i tell her
my favorite muppet show sketch
is
kermit & lydia the tattooed lady

i sing a refrain

she accuses me of being

the world’s most beautiful marxist

and we laugh