From Automaton to Autobahn

Exclaimer: Right now, this is stream of consciousness.
As soon as night turns into day
and the day gives me some more time,
I'll make it a little less unrelate(able).

Along the yellow divide of my body
you stand
holding
piss-stained roses
and the remains
of stone cold comedy
on evenings
kissing the stark contrast
between you
and me.

We'd starve ourselves on lust,
making sure to throw it up
later,
out of our systems
like your father
throwing
those old tires into the Passaic River.
"Taxes are for rich people."
Then what do we have?

Raised out of spite
on Patti Smith and Joan Jett
wearing nothing but black hearts -
bolted shut -
and tee shirts that screamed
Fuck the World
whether or not we wore them.

And we held each other,
screwed
on tight
in fear of collapse
or failure,
waving peace signs
like PFLAGs
at people
who needed more than
a flash of light.

We were proud.
Or at least you were.
I was proud for you.
No boundaries,
a machine
welding
hatred shut
and taking all the credit.

You mastered the wrench
and I watched you slide
in and out
from under cars,
bruises of grease
for every driver spitting
"dyke" at your peace-
ful protest.

You trusted me,
taught me the jack hammer
and laughed
the next day in bed,
"You push down,
it'll go up on its own,"
and it did.

I knew the world would blow up
when you left
but no one said to accept
change.

Now I am proud
for me.
No boundaries,
spitting
monster truck rallies
from the back of my throat
and remembering the
mismatched parts
you pieced together.

There's water spilling
in and over cars
and I'm swallowing it
like a preacher swallows
his words
and I've never been more proud,
I've always been too proud
to tell you
that you've helped.

I know it's crazy
but when water crashes
into cars,
I think of you.
The crazy mechanic
who taught me
to swim.