in the backseat, you’re telling me you are 

just in town to pitch a show, and ask

if I know vance joy, am I his baby brother.

you plug in a location for a bank, and I wait

is there turmoil for the bird on wire?

ferment in murmuration for starlings,

weaving bands of iodine in the sky,

cycling like warnings chafed smooth in repetition?

the sign on the door says needle exchange, a lie

that is ultimately inconsequential, you are hot

enough to be a singer, you say, have you

ever thought about being a singer

looking to the sky, starlings again

or buzzards, spinning circles round my head like

haze on hot pavement, we have come

to LA for the same thing, a shot, and failing—

you, an escort, preacher teacher for feasting

men who are still figuring out how to be

themselves, richer than either of us, and clean

of southern california dust, me, driving uber

i wonder if it must be maddening to thrum

in accord with thousands, to beat against the wind,

without collision, without collision