Look closely—
part of this poem was written
20-some miles from his home
at a bus-stop in Santa Barbara.
He doesn’t know how
to give voice
to his ambitions,
so he writes half-poems
on napkins
on State Street
and pretends that
stolen toilet paper rolls
are tiny scrolls
and he is a scribe
with nothing to write
but gold.
Bare Ly is the tender gender-fuck your parents never warned you about. They make sad music (Double A Dollar) and host an experimental podcast series called A Soft Mess.
South Broadway Ghost Society 