On big fat tires dude's massive truck sat in traffic
Hungover as a crow
Face greased with stubble
Bending over ass-to-zenith
Eyes bugged, shifting, on a search for a bathroom
Palpitating curiosity, on the run from a bit torrent

Arms strained, they pop, his head a pouring torrent.
Induction, convexity, a coma stuck in traffic.
The road, all cars, the lines look like a massive bathroom
(Which it is if you're a crow)
Evolutionary zenith
In a universe of stubble

Where bumps between lanes stand up like stubble
Scraping tongue and hatching eyes before the torrent
Like sponge, with pores, pupils meet zenith
Pulsing a different era, a different form of traffic.
Spirals sported in the eye of a crow
A string of bizarre incidents involving the bathroom.

Long brown stains run down the walls in the bathroom.
The sink overflowing with presidential stubble.
On the lip is a feeding crow
Bleeding maple syrup, gallons of torrent.
It's head a pineapple, ants teem toward, black highway moving traffic.
Yet still we march on, eyes fixed beyond the zenith.

We plodded. Our conversation at a zenith.
Too entranced to reconsider, too intense to find a bathroom.
In his head are letters, his thumbs reflect their traffic.
Forgotten games of cards and a slam of the hand on the wheel, jostled, seatbelt scraping stubble.
Between his legs, a torrent.
That all too familiar feeling, where porcupine meets crow.

His thighs moist, alternate with prickling, a flutter like feathers, black pants, wet wings, a crow.
And still we march on, not yet beyond the zenith.
I say, "listen man." And then again, "listen listen listen." My mouth loose with torrent.
His eyes in his pants, cry loosed lips, unable to drive to a bathroom.
"Listen, man. Let's stop. I want to shave this stubble."
And then waking unto wetness, eternally born into traffic.

Proximity Distorted Conversation

poop message

linksys

some text that cannot be said out loud

lozenge

Guacamole

itchy... mold... fingers... scritchy

hot...sweaty...fishy...asian

canal street after rain in July

tongue sandwich stand run by cyclops
underneath the eyeball a slight dripping source

a cactus trembling with remorse

hammer and tongs, hammer and tongs

the United States of Bulimia (Gross Insistence Traveling Salesperson)

Eating crabs in king sized waterbed

shell in back, turn over, remember salt-water

Mother apron-backwards, fucking the mailman and cursing the price of milk.

those cigarettes way up on the shelf

Memories of scotch bottles haunting the schnauzer.

NOSE NOES KNOWS

the royal we

glop glop splash with this pointed fork of an icicle

can we eat soon?