Will you be sincere
Whispering into the juice box (jukebox) scared
The music, after all the lights are turned out for the day, still plays for ghostly spirits past midnight once a perverted chill takes hold of the concrete.
In the Pacific North-West a lone trail rolls through forest bending into Klamath hill.
An orange light betokens a cabin abandoned between the trees. And quiet you can hear Alan Vega from an uknown source, some speaker cracking in the dark.
Only one hears the voices inside ones’ head
I may rise from the dust
Sipping on juice box innocent, just a boy
Or someone else.
Am I queer to dance? Or expressing all boundaries of human soul? Is it still of me to question if I am man, or woman?
What do I do?
Whose name is moaned from my lips in ecstasy or pain?