Ride W Favor

Kamden Hilliard
No tears No tips No meters No nips [well 
mayb] No Lyft No Uber No 1-8 
hundo But he do wanna kno How yu

            been? Where’d yu go? & yu kno yu best talk

harder 2 pin his desire Even 
tho we didn’t start the fire yu wait 
4 the punchlite The lines of blinker

            Yu ask of Mom & Dad & late nite D

sires—dimes o’ lite Till so close yu must 
b Southwest Delta American Air 
lines Here here is gud don’t worry So he

            pop the hood & yu roll in Left ‘em full

gud on the queerer questions of queer kin 
-ship What danger cost 2 much    patron saint 
of patrón? Pain 2 paper alchemy?

            Skycap’n of the pitiful sellin’ out

damn spot!? My politic ain’t got a pot 
dealer 2 piss off I’m peppery—I’m 
emphatic as an amphetamine Can’t

            cut myself out of me in2 the blank

holes of nite The whole pre-fires The whole 
—Okay okay I started the firelol 
boring in2 the air via port Bony-ass

            horizon I’m drug poor I pay my way

Related Poems

The Burn

Such a swift lump rises in the throat when
a uniformed woman spits Throw it away!
and you tremble to comply wondering why
rules of one airport don't match another's,
used to carrying two Ziploc bags not just one
but your pause causes a uniformed man to approach
barking, Is there something you don't understand?
and you stare at him thinking
So many things, refugees marching
from one parched field to another,
rolled packs on their heads,
burn of ancestors smoldering outside stolen homes,
or you could be six again, yelled at on the playground
by a teacher who knew all the bad things you could do.
You're pressing little shampoos and face creams
firmly into a single plastic bag, he could slap you.
Sorry, so sorry, not wanting
to give up seven extra bottles of Bliss brand
lemon & sage soapy soap fresh-foaming shower gel

that you tipped the W houseboy into leaving
so you could pretend you live a Happy Hour life
back home, you hope she takes it out of the trash
when you turn away, obviously she needs a relaxing shower
and a stiff gin and he needs something like a long trip
into a country full of foreign soldiers and we all need
to swallow hard again so the lumps dissolve
and pressure eases and our worlds mingle kindly
and he no longer feels the gun in his back.