i have a type.
types.

the sweet zones
scratching those
primordial
itches.

fuzzy guitars. thick bass lines. boom bap.
scratches. a brass section. microtonal. distortion. attitude.outlaw. protest. punk.
math. backpack. indie. noise.

short. punchy.
with a depth
be it
sonic
or emotional.

for the next
two and a half minutes,
i need to move.

fall into the grooves,
as the needle
injects electricity
in pulsating waves
and joyous shivers
ossicalting current
in impossible ossicles
freeing a frenzy of
magical impulses.

music is
proof of life.
showing a disparate
world we are not
alone.

we don’t necessarily
get to pick our poisons
just the rate in which
we happily ingest them.

i have a penchant
for music, psychedelics,
and disinterested blondes.
the first two
are always there
for when the last one
leaves me broken.
a never ending cycle
for a bipolar poet.
it takes all