My stomach is a handle of whiskey
staying just as cold while foxes
drag their teeth along the window glass.
Out here in the green bursts
where the earth rocks gently
on the fingers of the sky
I cannot find the lanterns
floating in the local creek
where frogs all flick
their tongues around
and whistle.
Target practice in the clearing
past the mismatched trucks
with broken mirrors is the percussion
to this little song we sing together
waiting for a ride somewhere.
I don’t care about the different wheels
that look like liquid diamond
in the gravel dust.
I just want some watermelon
and some ice water to make it
up that hill again, the way back
so much further than the send off.
I use my summer money to buy
an ice cream truck.
Then get some stupid kid to drive it
for a fraction of the daily haul
and tooth picks.
It makes the vacation last longer,
and now I probably won’t go back to school.
New Orleans seems like a place
where wasted time is not some earth worm
on the concrete.
Someone told me the girls
were different there
after I probably loaned them a cigarette
I never smoke.
They make it easier to make friends sometimes
and for only $6.99 what could be better
to have excess of?
I’d like to know what you know
since it’s burning now.
Teleporting Typewriter 