"We Don't Go To Ravenholm..."

Atop Bellagio Road summit with serrated radio tuned 500 kHz
         below the American bottom frequency,

         cankerous hiss as when a far-sighted archaeopteryx
                  diagnosed the incoming ball of fuzz-warm glow,

even a humble guy like I imbibes slight Raskolnikov
         feelings. Concerto crackle injects my smog with thoughts of you.

         Gordon Freeman crowbarred his heart, I guess, or must
                  have at least rolled some unrequited grenades

into his mute vocal vent shafts under
         jurisdiction of aching-for-Alyx lungs. Now Susie Q,

         karaoke quality, triggers flashbacks of my teenage trip,
                  lobby of Las Vegas with my folks at another Bellagio,

most unmemorable Strip hotel sans pirate and clown.
         Not a lot for a wholesome minor in American Sodom

         on lookout for a fellow family-tortured teen boy or girl.
                  Perhaps to push my mind from make-up homework

quietly I rehearse for the return to school: "I, AJ,
         reluctantly inform you...that I think you are...hot stuff. I...

         should have said I was crushing on you a month,
                  two months ago, but...my mouth has a brain for a gag."

Urquidi guts came through later that week, then fucked off
         Valentine's Day pining with miscommunication through June.

         Why shouldn't I kick anxiety's ass? Do-over with a capital D:
                  Xerox my love poems, wedge 'em in your locker? Manic

youth yet again forced me on a gnat-whacking Bel Air climb;
         zygotes'll just stay zygotes till we work out this romance idea.


AJ Urquidi hails from Monterey, California. He received his BA in Creative Writing and Film from UCLA, then studied guerrilla poetry for two years in the NYC streets. AJ's poems have appeared repeatedly in Westwindautolycus, and CIRCLE Poetry Journal. He is currently earning his MFA from CSU Long Beach.