I wanna date a musician

Her set is short for now, but the mix of electronica and pop is arresting
when she dances in the puddle of spilled beer 
or fusses with the cable connection on her distortion pedal mid-song,
but any doubt is wiped away when you hear the songs. 

Incorporating ethos of hip-hop alongside surf-rock poetry,
she mesmerizes me and Greg from the stage,
as we battle for her eyelashes to bat in one of our directions,
idiots in the summer wind, sweaty Brooklyn skin.

A dirty fox from Jersey, Julia sings of deep sea divers,
capturing my inspiration and Greg's imagination,
and we smile because we know the game is on,
but also because we both know she is too cool for us combined. 

Greg is a musician but I am a poet,
and she is both, as well as much prettier than us,
so we are screwed and she is cursed
to walk this earth with idiots like us pining after her.

I hate that she used the term "level up"
but I liked her smile and direction,
not to mention she's a stunning blunette...
that's right, her blue hair
is modern hipster punk rock up top,
with corpo marketing/graphic design down below. 

She did the podcast before it was a podcast,
when it was just a written series,
and then Greg asked if I wanted to go see a band,
not knowing the connection.

She may not remember this,
but we met at a party that I didn't want to go to,
and both caught each other stealing books:
hers was Pop Song, essays by Larissa Pham,
mine was We Inherit What the Fires Left, poems by William Evans. 

So we have that,
and I pray it comes up
in backstage banter,
but who knows!

I want to date a musician, Greg says. 
I want to live with a musician, I retort.
She'd write songs at home, and ask me what I thought of 'em, 
and maybe even include one of our private little jokes in the liner notes. 
Maybe a little picture of me in the liner notes, Greg says. 
Just in the background somewhere, I say.