Is stoner a sexuality?

Ward of youth,

the clap

of a door as I exit

near the river where

boys jog to Beyoncé’s

Beyoncé.

I wonder what her

search terms

for feminism were.

To locate

a body

of work,

you uh. Uh,

being stoned

is post-linguistic,

like way too high to speak

or in excess

of the pleasure

of thinking,

it’s never enough.

Being bodied

in fragile language is OK,

Beyoncé says.

Um sure.

In the mean time

can you free me

to not be dumb

or is this it,

the one world,

crystalized at

the ghost level

of Bitcoin,

an economy

of restrained glee

held up

at the door with a cocktail

from a stupid bar

blasting Drake. Later,

en route to Manhattan

under the high rises

I think of Kenzo

models in the gray,

rise of blue

in delicate colors

of designer

couture, as magic

as a Fabergé egg

recovered in time

for Easter. It’s

“moderately sunny,”

the Easter light a pale beige

over the city as I speed

up on the BQE

(as the cab speeds

up on the BQE)

with the sun fallen

in its blue

behind me. I remember

you vomiting on me

last night

in the cab

and for some reason

I thought it was

really cute.