[I king my motorway]
I king my motorway, shine my bamboo wheels. I whitewall
the rubberized onlookers & make good on my
scandalmonger promises. Once, I was a gutter write-
off, a lunacy paragon, but now I take my tea with your gleaming
patriarchs, your falsetto hucksters. My chalets are legion, are remote
& visited by debauchery—not bad for a pallbearers’ assistant from east
jesus, usa. I am a thing motivated by my obsessions, my falsity
wingspans. The sleeping pensioner finds himself nestled
in my doorway & I invite him in, invite him to despise
me over a dish of kidneys in red wine. He offers his slander & I
rejoice, I am ebullient, buoyant in scorn & slight regard. Of course,
he will have calamities visited upon his person, he will have his organs
removed & shorn, brined & jarred. But, for now, he is my guest, my faithful
reminder of mountains & pot stills, of cowpaths & rotten gums. He devils
me like a set of rusty handcuffs, a braided shank. My teeth come out after.
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