This poem sets up on the floor
no pretense, no bullshit
preferring a basement,
The secret handshake anyone can learn,
this poem is not interested
or in being sold.
It is the lyric sheet passed out
at the outset,
because the words fucking matter,
a butterfly pressed in your pocket.
This poem is the moment there by the water heater
that you realized both your privilege and your potential
These are loud stanzas, and, okay,
a little abrasive,
but they know that’s not enough.
They are also starry-eyed,
and why not?
Nothing good ever came
out of anything that wasn’t.