I was in the backseat of a 1988 Prelude listening to Conor's sonnets and etudes, moving my tongue in uncomfortable loneliness because your passenger seat was occupied and I couldn't decide if you were quiet or shy. I hadn't met you yet.
Hennepin was good to us at 2AM and gave us space to sip uncommon grounds in the typically uncommon Uptown. I saw bright eyes in your words and unrecognized yellow birds.
I remember things and I don't know why. I remember the paper mache lady on Nicollet and I remember that you sang about how it's neat that we all own guns and I remember wishing that I was born on Independence Day and I remember walking past empty bookshelves at the end of the day and I remember remembering when they were stocked and I remember loving the way we talked about Huxley.
and it's a year or so later and I'm your passenger and the streets are still full of images and hidden messages and faces with whiskers. "I saved a cat from a tree once," and my cackle secured the shackles on my ankles that I picked out myself off the mannequin.
and it's always just us because Vic is always with Lucy, Molly, and Mary Jane and they're having dreams and hearing secret frequencies (like the ones you pointed out to me) and doing drugs and discovering Christianity and decorating themselves with ashes and ashes with Ashley.
and the people I used to know from St. Paul are working and growing small and trippin' and slippin' and sippin' gravy, but we're still sippin' uncommon grounds and we're all still living in these twin towns. But none of them are wearing the matching heavy crowns that you and I picked out ourselves off the mannequins. They're the same shade of gold as the birds in your words and they're the same shade of gold as the shackles on our shins that mold our golden grins that we had our faces when you said, "This is the world where dreams come true, right?"
and we're confirmed by a blinding white light that shows through the windows of the theater in Bryant-Lake Bowl that compliments us like you compliment me, like I compliment your skinny tie (the one that makes me want to die.) But we can't die because this city doesn't have any double-decker buses or any other us-es.
and I watch you program lazers into my heart and I think; What a beautiful old man What a beautiful growing boy What a beautiful perfect cylops with an eye of my color green to shower me in scenic joy.
and as we dance to the records we bought from Minneapolis antique shops, I look into the eye of my cyclops from a centimeter above the ground and realize that this is the dream where the world comes true.
"Write a New York style poem about Minnesota." "Okay, professor."