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I Would Ride A Bus With You

 Ryder Collins
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 Ryder Collins
I Would Ride A Bus With You
by Ryder Collins  FollowFollow
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Ryder Collins is the mama from the Dirty South. Ryder Collins wants you to bring her a highball. Ryder Collins likes men in hairshirts. Ryder...read more Collins does not know when to stop.
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I Would Ride A Bus With You
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& make sure you got home all right i would
negotiate the bus stops and pull the ding line for
you i would thank the bus driver i would get your 
transfer i would pay your fare and i would find you a
seat not in the stand up for senior section i would let you
play your ds sit happy with headphones i would intervene
in any stranger's attempt at chit-chat or flirting or ranting
that one guy who says, fuckingbitchfuckingcuntfuckingfuck, 
i would block from your view with my body/my purse somehow
i would contort limbs & accessories so you didn't have to see
i would stare out the window for you and i would sigh bored
for you i would look slack-jawed apathetic at the same poetry
videos playing over and over again on the tv screen i would be
your keanu reeves & laser a hole in the floor & trail underneath
the bus if there were a terrorist i would also be your sandra bullock 
& drive the goddamned thing if i had to or if that wasn't good enough
i would be your iPod or if it was hot out i would be your swimming pool

you will be my lake vostok
after the old skidoo
i will pizzaheart
you. i will take an effigy
you to a furry convention
in hotlanta  & you will be
a coca-cola
polar bear. stranded on
a drifter. i will safari
you. i will greenhouse
you. i will hijack you. i will
poem and barter you. there
are knuckles
& these knuckles will badmouth
you. these knuckles know
mixed metaphor & deep
throating, yo. these knuckles are
inked.
you will be my skin casing
sausage machine. you will be
my grinder.
i will not hoagie you. i will not
submarine your love. i will
not acquiesce to your
wooly mammoth cave
pictures. i will not fall for
your piltdown man
jitterbug again

you would see that i am all mature & shit

& i haven't thought about you in a long time. before
you were like my fave song when i was
young young young and i'd have you
stuck in my head all day long and
i'd try to catch you on my
radio so i could tape you &
i'd only get pieces here and there
but i could combine those pieces
and i did; there was a tape full of these
pieces and i would play it over and over
and the song became something more than
it ever was. and i'd go to bed with the song
in my head and i'd wake up with the song in my
head and i'd wake up and i'd grown an inch and i'd wake
up with cravings for reese's peanut butter cups and m&m's
and cool ranch doritos and all sorts of processed shit i never
eat any mores not cos my body's a temple or any
crap like that but cos i no longer have a sweet tooth and i
wonder where it went and where have you
gone, too, cos i ain't feeling yas anymore.

now i wake up and i haven't grown any.

now i wake up and there is no one whose name i've forgotten in my bed.

now i wake up bored & not full of gin.

You have taken your folding city
you packed it all up in a cardboard box. you closed that shit with used suspenders.
you found those suspenders in the back of the goodwill where we'd make out.
we liked the smell of must and lost desires and mothballs and despair.
we liked the smell of broke down cars and long cigarette ash hanging on, hanging on.
we'd fall into piles of winter coats. we'd lose ourselves in down and faux-down and fur and faux-fur and ski pants and little moon boots.
it was the little moon boots that made you cry.
it was the little moon boots that made you cry out.
you are a perv with a folding city in a box.
i tried to change you; i tried to reclaim you. i tried to take your folding city and nail it down, make it permanent, make it stay and flourish and trade with other cities and grow some botanical gardens and attract some noodle houses and change the traffic signs from all caps.
you spent your time sifting through others' cast-offs.
you came out of a rack with suspenders held triumphant, aloft.
you wrested your city back from me. that was hot cos we wrestled some and things got parka-peacoat-snowshoe kinky for a sec.
then it was all over and you packed up.

i made you a shantytown
i asked you to tell me
how to say
in turkish, there is a house
in my pants. but you saw
no home there. & all
i saw was a tent
city in yours
full up with burning
garbage cans, war
veterans, broken down
bicycles, & empty mad dog
bottles. this was not domesticity
on either side. & that is why we fucked
in the kitchen. that is why the flat
bread burnt & the feta stunk
on countertops & my crescent moon
tattoo went all squiggly & palmettos
scurried back & forth in corners like
we was chucking apples
& kafkaing
with every groan and thrust. we knew
no better. we never ate off plates.
we never ate. together
we made a halfway
house. together we havened
addiction. together we broke
curfew.  we fiended
& fixed. we harbored
castoffs. all together
yes. & separate.
cardboard sogs & plywood
burns
funny. it will never be
in the news
tho that way
we watched
it all go up

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