Pancaked to concrete
Van broken down
114 degrees.

Can't eat.
Can't speak.


I am lifting California off my back.


A thousand windows
steaming,

my hand curving down them
turns sidewinder  through mojave
  no relief, heartless people, concrete on fire,

cleaning perceptions
for better views

brown leaves carpet everything

even on my days off
I feel ladder rope
carving my wounded hands

survival mode on high
selfish city stabbing me

everywhere I go
Babylon against me.

It's no surprise
but now it's time

to burn rubber
and get the **** outta here.