my body has an asphalt aroma.
i'm idle and my fuel tank,
a shot glass, is in the gutter.
is set with elbow,
fist on cheek, book
of cracked pages.
i watch this scene on the wall of my skull:
my brain, a clod of tendrils in search of a plot.
there is no place to root
in the exposed isolation of the road,
a dead ringer for the physics of chaos.
the shade of an oak is a collective memory.
i glow metallic in the ultra-violet sun.
i've hit a possum and the road, built
with no regard for obstacles,
continues its tail-pipe regret for the shy and blind.
drone of tires rolls out mother's predator pie:
a recipe for chainsaws and parking lots
to expand the rush hour of denial
and shorten the proximity
of stand-up comedian to botched executions.
once deflated, roadkill reveals its broken bones.
unable to stand, life continues
in the crawl of maggots.
may 17, 2014
Goggling, Ooh and AhhThe village eccentricspits on your car.The aging hippieargues a lot.No one has a handleon it anymoreExcept the marketand you knowthey're bettingyou turnon your own anddo the dirty workfor them. You knowthey've got itfigured outto the very last gasp.Rounded upto eat your dimeand daughter. You knowthis is how it goes.It happens t...