Storm of silver nitrate
Janus in chrome
Third eye leather
the worthy intuits
the milemarker. The
car
is just a conch of
dials & vinyls, an ashtray
keeps fire
at hand, smoking
in a gale we once did
what we needed to
& left the rest
to glower, mesmerism
of the asp
of the road, tell no tales
behind the wheel
We’re all going somewhere
from the moment
we got in
There is no background, only wind.
Women caress the car, men do not
understand the complexities of our situation.
We would love to experience this live,
breathe smog alternates, my venom seems
plasmatic, every particle this mass-cross field.
I cannot see.
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