(After Bob Dylan)
Green iguana gill mantis sheen.
Veins & South American rivers
mapping Australian longnecks
rattling the conveyor.
Claw, unintentional, instinctual,
digs in; something's amiss;
something's about to burst
into Chinese fireworks just before
it's about to happen.
Saddle your filthy paint.
Jimmy the lock for leverage.
Over, that's the ticket.
Under wouldn't do.
Over's the answer today;
over & not so much under
the hood of your discharged
without a license '34 Ford coupe
or '48 Plymouth with me trapped beneath
you & Roger Lyle entering
the Skydrome Drive-in via the exit,
alien speakers ripped from aluminum pods
& streaking Military Trail like fireworks
from the Palm Beach County Fair.
What's wrong with that?
I play mostly songs
between the hits;
it's not I don't appreciate
an occasional hit or three, it's just
I don't feel obliged
to Gorilla Glue myself to the ghost
of Jack the Ripper or any other fool
enough to declare rock star status
during our down-turned economy.
What's this, now, Daddy's in the alley,
he's looking for food, but I stumble
from a shoe, a patent leather strapless get-up
for a night out with Pagliacci's best friend,
& I'm in the kitchen with a Bouvier flooze
sniffing & eyeing her AAA food,
filtered water every 4 hours
or so, & here we are, again;
though we swore we'd never meet
this way again; here we are.