One time, in NYC, I was invited to a 90s-themed party
and I just wore my regular clothes.
Despite the SoCal heat,
I want to buy and wear more black jeans
with boots, bandana out the back pocket.
Not the uniform of a poet, but an aging punk rocker,
is it lame if I go to the GAP at the Beverly Center
or a fucking KOHLs looking for Levi's?
Who cares, I certainly don't.
I gave up on caring around the era of that party,
in which I saw a sticker of one of my poems on the fridge
and I lied to a girl about being a pilot of cars.