Greyhound
Cowboy boots
and vintage wool psychedelia (poncho, jazz shades)
and cool drip slow burn tea
and electric notes of Bob Dylan, Maggie’s Farm
and that dude, he has meth mouth
so I guess he’s going to talk
and talk and talk
Mestizo soda pop
and a Vietnam Vet. selling car insurance
and damn, it’s just too bad
that no one knows of his jungle
or of the opaque-eyed landlocked Lord of the Fish
and the fire-brained midnight mutterings
of his old compadres, the soon to be deceased
and now the bus moves
Sporadic in gesture
and old woman (oxygen masked dementia)
and the intergalactic fliers of fancy
and the acid head priest’s imbalance in fact v.
fiction with his ass in seat and wheels as feet
and the shivering ribs of this, our noble mode
of ultimate conveyance through the assailing grays
whites and silvers of the snow-water-nebulas
and now the bus slides
and slides and slides
Through Spokane dark
and the disintegration of passengers into sleep
on the black glass highway
through the breath of the night
and this is motion
and this feels right.
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