Gas Money

With my tight grip on a Necromantic pedal,

His voice floats above the unmarked grounds

of a territorial grandmother, drifting through domestic lands, we fall in and

out of an argumentative strand; (he and I)

fighting over tensed-up muscles and non-retractable

soul crushers – we drive inside the stomach of the angry Borders.

Struggling to keep our frequ-

encies intact, He mimics the Harshness

of the static radio

as it rips—

through our intimate vehicle of time

and reminds us our home is unfamiliar terrain, claimed

by a borderless Medusa.

Eternally she walks the underbelly of Jerusalem,

returning us back to the fertile soil of Nativity, where I

am an aging Prophet,

and he; a migrating Pigeon,

growing forgetful of our domestic burdens, she eats away at our eyes

screaming: unwelcomed lovers unwelcomed lovers unwell-

comed in the heart of a culture of masculine horror.

Bleeding carbon dioxide,

he can tell we are starting to lose

our color, Battling ancestral devils and a weakened gas pedal,

we slow the pace down until we run out

of road,

and split the Gas Money.