It’s a four-hour drive
up the coast to the end-of-line dive—
that terminal rest-stop on our way
to Destruct-O Plaza.
If we beat it in the next
five minutes, we might just squeeze in
for last call.
I want to; you want to;
we all want it, so we
pile into my rusted four-door,
smelling like distillery hippies:
the wrangled rank of last night’s
booze sweat, stale tobacco and toxic
jet fuel breath, stuck to us like
honey from the hive.
Up the coast, I hear,
downriver on the ferry,
sideways and over the tracks.
Our tires spin like dirty rubber paws
through the mocking faceless night—
the hours when Terra goes incognita,
and shrouds her face
from Sol with both hands,
playing peek-a-boo while half her body
twirls and rubs and
fornicates with unseen strangeness in the shadows,
until the bright morning burn
stomps scolding up the stairs—
condemning the immoral,
demanding penance in the daylight public
Forty lashes and we’re good.
Should we wake up in our beds,
undamaged and alone,
we’ll flog ourselves—
shit out forty lashes, no problem—
white-knuckling our rosaries
and baring blistered smiles.
Getting close now, down
the slick road to the end spot;
keep back some coins
from the toll booth for the boat driver.
He’s in a mood and
needs a couple coppers and a hug
to let us through.
I need to sweat some gasoline,
as we burn it faster down the straight lane;
put the pedal to the floor
and we’ll get there,
just in time for
Yeah… a work in progress, maybe?