611.

on the edge of an asphalt stretch,
clumsy-looking,
emitting the cycled sweat knocked around
city miles, a (rucksack) kerouac knock off
self medicated deer in an eternity
of incessant headlights
amongst which i fight to rouse friction
amid the green and white salvation
kindles, just above the hi-watt stampede--
when they can smell my star gazing fingertips,
they'll be on me;
the screech of swerved tires like
a conquered and claimed call of the wild,
but the seekers never come,
not for a synapse of hours snipped into
coupled minutes.

here, roadside
on america's longest interstate (garbled fact?)
i am the portrait of
(un)virgin mary road fucked
beat goddess,
but i am no vagrant,
behind me, 2, 552 sq ft
i call "ours,"
my supple swayed lunacy
wouldn't let me stay,
ambrosial herb that seasons
my inner eye
cupped in a palm
handshaked (no eye contact) exchange
(my first)
eons before (7:00 pm)
is now numbed ember encrustments
we'll smoke later
and trip, and touch,
uttering impossible things--

(a yellow chariot nears and he carries me
away--)

poetry has led me to a woman's bed
where unsheathed
like her pooh-poohed renoir
bubblegum landscapes,
we touch like sisters,
calmed in quiet hysterics,
scribbling skipping bic vs $2000
fingertapping prose, savoring
flickers of tender lives and lovers
we've martyred or judged.