Memory’s Machine
road trip with the dust and weed smoke in the car so thick, our eyes were the gas stations in the full gasoline noon/ the small town street lamps had once been crows, and all the motels had been rolling hills whose With Nothing To Return To was solid as a fragrant death/ as for cocksucking in rest areas, the flesh there is less than air/ town to town/ they can never find us where the moonlight is not unlike the syllables of despair/ sliding our cocks down the throats of sorrow, and its sons, we rated each and every town with how its inhabitants sucked dick, some good, some bad, some needed new laws about no fucking teeth/ the hair dressers smoking cigarettes on the sizzling sidewalks, and the catholic school girls with their books, and the seventh grade boys against the wind would stare as if no one had driven through this alley of a town, in fifty years, and the moist grey skies in fearful cries where time has taught the slow, we all lie down, upon the sorrow of the ground, beckoning with the cocaine blow, meetings of arrangement, the junior chamber of commerce, the league of women voters, the church coffee and motel showers and whores and flowers, crawling over tongues, we will leave this drooping eyelid town, legends of the lost and the dying in the found, we will know all your secret places because you will tell us as we hold you in our arms, an infinity of them and their skin, we would write about them all/