let's blow this joint she said nothing but
lovers whining on the radio babyi'llgiveyou everything.
thirtysevenmiles of dead dirt town i hate
when everything starts sounding like t.v.
to the west, freedom. tasteful bridges of colorful rock,
outcroppings like grand t.v. tables in granite relief.
pop bottles wicked as snake eyes under an acrid sun.
i left piglet in ohio but he'll be along terectly,
he always catches up. baking on the hood
her terracotta buttocks gleamed dully, dangerously,
hinting of cracks to come.
ice machines & afternoon vistas of vegas mirages.
tequila chasers with root beer, a restful siesta
dampening sheets left better alone.
you're my pancho she whispered into his thigh,
a brief suctioning pressure, cushiony, vampiric:
she left his heart to grill on a blacktop kiln,
waiting for piglet with her skirt hiked up
by a dead nevada road.
September 26, 1996
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