I settle into the passenger’s side
of your ’74 Monte Carlo.
The futonish front seat softly implies
an alliance center consoles forgo.
Hot boxing the car with clove cigarettes,
you casually spark plug the engine.
I roll down the window, scything through jets
of balmy wind with my fingertips. Skin
deserts silently ****** skin lagoons;
My neck—a cracked quill supporting onyx
memories in a  transistor room—
rests close to your barley breath harmonics.
You, the capo of this fresh syndicate,
naturally get more than I transmit.


2/10/09