For Jaime Serrano
Alone in his coral-colored room,
the shroud of marijuana clings
in our eyes like a half-distilled perfume,
bare feet and white-noise radio beats,
our anthemic groove as divine losers.
The boy my age holds the pot
of gelatin and glitter to baptize us,
a swipe of liquid gold like eye wings, ode to Hermes,
and with one soft finger like a golden raisin
drops a paper star upon my tongue.
An ardent fever, buoyant in the milkness
of the moon, we grope the undulous birth
we begin to see in everything, the television
spilling a silver dew of pixels
like an over-turned paint can upon our bodies.
We listen to Bowie on his turntable
and I think about all the starchildren,
their daddies bruising through fresh night
with a steel flashlight, shame rays,
like merry pranksters on Halloween,
grandsons of the silent age.
The boy my age is my brother
and like limbs curling down a river
in crescendos of breathlessness and tremulous light,
I’m stretched dry as a fish bone, when Bowie swings
his gold lips our way and the boy my age says,
He’s my voice.
We can be heroes in this heavenly beat,
toes jerking us up into spasms,
spasms into our hips rolling like
new dancers on a riverboat,
glitzy, resplendent in full drag,
each twist in the muscles of our ankles
as ephemeral as a green flash at sunset,
tracing our limbs with heavy sweat,
scouring the glass stardust into our skin
until there is no skin,
only long strings reverberating
with the stellar crash
of the drugs, this one moment,
burning cool and long
like white dwarves on the edge of a galaxy.