It’s the sol, ace. Big smiles and warm greetings that feel like beatings. I know they are happy. I am happy 4 but not 2. I feel like Coltrane on the nod. I love the beginnings. Fae magic and beautiful garb. Decorations, flowers, music and food. The Russians are tied to it. My healthcare is welfare but it costs a pretty penny. There’s a red velvet carpet and we prance down it like we are being awarded Oscars. I met a man who runs guns in Chicago. He smokes Cubans and black clove cigarettes. There is a warning that echoes in this sanctuary. It’s the soul, ace. The bee’s knees. Craving ICE at the reception as the alcohol seeps out of my skin. Everyone smells of gasoline and rancid meat. It makes me malcontent. If only love stayed this pure and fresh! You can drink it a few days past the expiration date. After that though, scars and regrets. The loss of words. The lessening of the vocabulary. The erosion of communication. The little flower girl is very cute. My cousin’s daughter is elfin. My own sweet child is dressed for the stage, a Shakespearean protagonist. So many loose conversations with mead on the tongue. A loud and boisterous reception. They’re all still talking about building this wall. I’m sure it will be a big, strong wall. We are all very adept at constructing them. It has been unnaturally warm but serendipitously, it is a perfect spring day for a wedding. If only love remained the same as the first day of the rest of your lives. It’s the sol, ace. Behind a setting. Live it as hard as you can when you find it. The soul, ace. It all begins to go down eventually.
Olde Punk writes RamJet Poetry