my son quizzes me from the carseat. Fuck I think as Kesha spill-breathes her disgust with love lit like diamonds over the strobe-quick beat. Unsure if I should bother with metaphor I decide to tell him about my high school gym teacher who labeled all girls Mabel. Why bother with names when we were all wannabe Mariah Careys? perms butterfly-clip-thick and mousse buried? Coach Dodge had no impetus to distinguish but love hits different—the way clouds canyon into shapes once you know how to focus the haze. Love breeds selectivity, a thirst that can only be cured by one brand though a whole ass mall sits at your hands. The static will pass. Melodies will razor arteries until you crimson into autumn, a sky leaf raw and blush sotted, but he looks lost so I drop it, and explain Kesha needs the same maze of day lilies and Richter level reciprocity as him, as me but if this world's a torch, we must be wind, divining where each flame ends.