Photo by Alvaro Sanchez on UnsplashIn Honor of the Man Who Denied Bill Nye
Let’s start in the most obvious place: emo.
The cask of crown molding moating
the Wenzke basement, the blush of the root
beer bottle spinning, the eel openness of all
the girls’ necks. I was there behind a hoodie,
loyal to nothing but the next kiss,
sure that touch would always be a game
I could rig - just one more ring around
the rosie and I’d be his. Not yet the ex
of a man from Miami who’d teach me
to be a harp, calloused and curved
under the buck of his finger,
only to leave the second I couldn’t
hit F sharp. Imagine he believed life
was worth mocking, that evolution
was liberal sobbing, not an ancient
ether I and the Science Guy enter
as molecular throbbing. Now winter
is an episode he watches from his trailer
in Texas and I am what he labels: excess.
