I am the vocalist to the death rattle
of a night steeped in forget-me-nots.
My eager-to-settle-down prongs
in the portfolio I’ve made for myself
are all that center the handwritten list of childhood names
that were given to me when I was too young to want to live forever.
Thumb sucking the opposable weight of familial brands
like Champ, Sport, or El Rey.

I’ve always had a crush on reincarnation.
Made love only in tempo with where the moonlight melts
on the sidewalk.

I ride an electric bike with no helmet, just another excuse
to walk down thin yellow lines
beefing with ghost-written autobiographies
before DUIs come to know the ways of the enlightened FYIs.

I hide my first smile in a pair of corduroy pants
that I grew out of after Middle School.
Left the second one on a phone call that lasted longer than a green light.
I’m not a beggar, but sometimes I wonder how long it’ll be
till someone volunteers to run a microfiber cloth along my self-pity.

Belly full with overbearing intimacy blockades
I’m not a big enough man
to leave the workday a sanctified place.

Slow dancing to the air conditioner
under the saturated confusion of a fourth-in-a-lifetime eclipse
is not exactly a baluster of romance.
But doing so on company time might be.

– Immanuel A. Garcia