Stephen Radio has heroes but still doesn't know how to spend his time
he finds himself most weekends in stranger's kitchens in apartments that
want to be starships, and, if he's lucky,
the windows open and the leopards spill out onto the shoulders
of Boston, beloved city,
eldritch swamp colossus
Stephen Radio likes rooftops
he hunts for parties for the chance to scale the crowns of buildings
making friends with Allston high plains BBQers
and mission hill art school cat burglars
pushing his way past bathrooms hallways filled with boys with wrists
and elbows like scissors and board games and girls
with eyes lurking under bangs like deadly swingsets
maybe you know him
maybe you can tell from his name
Stephen Radio has his eyes fixed on the sky
he only knows where his feet are during wishes
he's a simple boy, he's no greaseball tightpants
with steamengine thighs
there are earnest dreams sprinkled on his cheekbones
he's trapped in the upper margin of the hub of the universe
where fire insinuates itself into the rust of the clouds
and the dotted lines of constellations comes into focus

And the rooftop argument is always the same
and the glowing coral mercury windows say
"You, will not find what you are looking for up there"
and Stephen Radio says
"I will not stop looking
I can taste these rooftops through my sneakers
I can taste the sky through my sneakers
the frozen descending marine songs of clouds
are attached to my shoulders
the stars live between my eyelashes"
and the shattered desert choir of bricks say

"You, will not find what you are looking for up there
You are lost
You are lost like the insomniac kiteflyers who cannot
rise above the living nightmare of dead family
and settle for windtangled orphancy