Jay Orlando

Weather Report

for everyone who has ever fallen in love with David Lynch

I want to Mulholland Drive you

in a gentle way, with all the violence

inherent in idealization.

This is not a love poem.

I want to tear you down

to my level and uplift myself

on your laurels, make you scream

silencio!

until the key slips from your fingers.

I am the wo/man behind the dumpster

caked with mud, puppeteering

the caped fabric of reality.

This is Winkie’s and you

are having the nightmare

that will kill you.

You can rub one out to the idea

of Wild at Heart, but I am no Sailor.

I am every ounce Betty/Diane.

I want to posess. I want to control

the narrative.

You can only smoke

so many packs a day.

There is no escape.

Sing me a song, paint

me a picture or a pair

of pants. Dance around me.

Idolize my lips specifically.

You cannot be free of

the past – the pained look

on your father’s face –

it colors you.

I heard God say that once.

He was born in Missoula Montana.

The promised land looks

like the Hollywood sign:

stark and two-dimensional.

Draw me a picture of the sole

of your soul. Tell me:

does it wear like a shoe?

The only way out is through. Press

the dying radio to your ear. We avoid

coloring books here, no lines

to color outside of, only the blank page.

Feel it.

Check it with a stick.

Draw me a picture, an adult woman,

naked.

She should have a bloodied mouth

and beautiful pale white skin.

Sometimes her arms bend back.

There is something bad wrong with her

and maybe she looks

a little like Laura Dern.

God speaks these things shrouded

in smoke from his cigarette.

There is an awful stink of tar and ash

and tobacco. I am a prophet, a moth

beating my wings against the window

of revelation.

Huge worlds exist in small spaces.

In two blocks.

You could live in one place and have

everything.

Then there is the other half.

The darkness. The storm.

There are the friends you have and then

the friends you should have had.

We’re living at least three lives here,

all separate, all at the same time.

Maybe the Palmer girl had the right idea.

Burn bright, burn fast, but burn.

As long as you burn.

Jay Orlando (he/they) is a trans, queer, folk punk poet from northern Appalachia. He has LOVE POEM tattooed across his knuckles. His works have been recently published by Red Flag, Red Branch Review, and Ouch! Collective. His debut poetry collection, A Tangled Lineage (2024), is available from Redhawk Publications. You can follow Jay's poetry, cats, and karaoke antics on Instagram @jaybird.orlando or on BlueSky @jayorlando.