We Are the Real Boys

My mates and I are cruising down

Summerbreak Ave.

We’ve got our dads pinned to the backseat

of our souped-up Corvette,

shining so nice and sweet, like your trophies.

.

You wanted us to meet you

halfway down the football fields,

halfway up your spines,

with expectations to set out alone

and whittle devils in the oak.

.

So, how do you like it back there?

You’ve got our Oedipal urges locked

in your safes, and we’re about to crack them.

.

Because we are not your Issacs.

We are the exhaust pipes,

reckoning for a new kind of speed

along the humps you created

for masked protection

of the Code, laced through the transmission,

amplified on your pecs,

with no generative pats on our backs

that work anymore.

.

Try emasculating our pistons again,

and we’ll go even faster.

.

We will join the tribal dances

after we jump out and careen you off this cliff

and become the Magicians and Kings

no longer misunderstood when acting tough

or misunderstood for being vulnerable.

.

If you wish to join us,

stop contemplating our fates as those in which we are

separated,

isolated in our cars.

Become a different odyssey,

one in which we are no longer adrift and alone.

Become a Memorial Day we will never forget.

.

In the meantime,

we’re cranking it,

busting it,

sparking it,

revving it,

sexualizing it,

creating it,

loving it,

.

and, truly, we’d rather you all be There.