Shedding t-shirts like John Byner
on the open road
windows all the way down
it's fucking cold in the middle of the night
"To the stars of lower Antioch, California!"
we toast with whatever splashes
down the front of us
one extra "up-up-and-away!" or maybe
another high-five to your face
"Good game! Good game!" they snarl
yelling at us from below
like ants with burning biting voices
we never sing out like that
even when they clap steel
we don't know the words
to flailing or failing
only the footsteps
those rare bold moves
"I'm fading John, I say" she says
your bell loop is a time warp
and BOING out come her boobs remember
poverty in our bowls like a dead man's breakfast
a thin layer like resin it's so fucking obvious
replicating the chant chant
doesn't doesn't
recreate create the spell
coincidence and
happenstance
the way it all works out
works into a story
I'm still in the middle
of telling
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