gay bois who won the trade war

Poetry by Liam Strong

gay bois who won the trade war

i.

it’s when Alex said
what the shit are you doing buying five

dollar cds from the opening band
do you think you’re a prospector, hunting for prisms

emblematic reflections of yourself
do you think you found it, the gem, the one ripped

disc that the substitute drummer signed
with crayola marker

that was the point when
i left

ii.

it’s when everyone in the pit agrees
that suffering as a choice & act of self-care

isn’t suffering at all. we don’t need to consider
the lobster this time, David. we’ve got it. we’re

boiling, we’re steaming, & someone is guaranteed
to smell like scallions. hedonists purporting life

satisfaction theory would suggest that the concussion
gifted to me at the last For Today show

in Grand Rapids was a morsel or few
of bliss. dharma of crowd-surfing, dharma

of the dogpile. it’s when i get elbowed, kicked,
thrown back up by my shoulders, David,

when the ever-smiling Buddha, or ever-
smiling me, or some image of me riding off

the high of flailing bodies in dance that
you can tell i never want to leave.