This is a low budget film. All I can tell you -
The protagonist is a woman in blue shorts.
Maybe you should call her a girl. Sunday
service on the radio. A dog trots alongside
the drivers door. Her door, her four door
car. A two mile stretch of highway lies to
the camera, reaches its fingers to the ending credits like reaching up a skirt.
Her dog. Her sunset oils up the sticky seats.

Whispered at night, a rapidly tumbling neon triangle stuck between decibles.
Thunder drums in fields, the fairy statues on my mother's nightstand.
And in the palmy middle, quicksand.
Knot at my neck; laughs are pulled from me like petals. Have I loved you, Have I not?

[Walking through town at night] is like starring in a silent film. Every passerby pantomim ing for coin, for dope, for a grimy existence adjacent to the rest of the country.
(Aged pinup scotch taped to a red chest of rusted drawers.
Dead lady, though she remembers model T's and powder blue bathtubs.)

I have been crying more everyday, draining evergreen and salt-serum.
Knew it from the future, being hard to watch it go.
Slowly my body rots from under me, but for now its still keeping time, still sees shadows of the people I claim to know.

Proof zebra, or it doesn't matter.
Angel was a wraith, swathed in cheap sheets/ smell rotting, lawnmower. All these commas are ankle biting dogs. Beware the fog lights of the murderous parrots who know too much. I mean, yeah, I know
I am a whole person under the counter with clinking keys, a whole giving person with knees and oakbark hair. And, yes, I give really good head, and yes, I speak well, if a little through my nose, only slipping back to the ****** slang when I'm tired or *****/ and the stars pinched into vertebrae reverberate solidly, compelling an escape into untrue arms, because, why not -
if I'm scarlet and all I see is panfried fish on soft bread paper plated on a banquet table, what's to stop me from asking for a quick whipping back into place?
Nothing, this is all confessional. I'm only sick of paving these roads, I admit to the monster (only me, only _ monstrosity)// I chew liquid from wax bottles; red for the city slicker, blue for the midwesterner, orange for the cowboy, green for the alien, yellow for the gold medal winner eating the food I cook.

a carbon copy. generous engine .
clap your hands if
you're mine. double amputee call
the shots, showy
                  boas and ruffle shorts .
what's in your cup holder
ventriloquist?
a skeleton lady ; a solid gold snifter
to throw against the wall of sequins.

I must have something to joke about. Like being a swampy mermaid. I'd **** to be a sexless myth, hermit in the wetlands, combing my hair with the delicate ribcage of a racoon. Still, every now and then the boyfriend/bear would come find me and ******* onto my tail. What wild certainty in that -

Bianchi holster in seventies orange ,
platform suede boots.

Overreactions -
glamorous atrocities ,

the petticoat ragdoll ,
the top that made my ******* hurt
all seething & sultry , man made.

Somewhere
the angry serial defiler trembles
like a mercury meniscus.

My metal detector doesn't work. I'm sorry my friend killed you, she has problems with her cerebral cortex. My metal detector broke, and I need to find the treasure buried by old ford himself; my ex said some ****-head said the devil was after him and he stumbled across the treasure covered in CD cases and hypodermic needles. They say he paid for a billboard over 75

Hey here, hey here it is baby
girl; blue shorts, bubble gum
in your hair? Here, here, here

and so I set out to find it. I don't care about my boyfriends other girlfriend; I'm hotter, I write poetry where the devil drinks what he siphones from gas tanks. My metal detector doesn't work. We only found out about the horseshoes in my ****** when he asked about insemination with his fathers *****: he always wanted a sister. I gave the horseshoe to my friend to hang above her front door in exchange for her twenty two year old metal detector. Nothing like the dentist bought me, but it worked. I found the treasure behind the VFW, stuffed into Kodak film bottles: maple leaves, water hemlock, and the keys to a ghost racecar.

Anybody etches the longwave, tadpole lyrical,
and its a poem   (woa- teakettle, tweaker)
Satellite poem, thunder poem, ******* poem.
Sevens sluttiest angel writes a eulogy so beautiful that we give her the title of funeral director.
We just give it away. (Its still only a eulogy)
I have ten toes and ten fingers. Ive counted on them. I wrote a poem about getting
a bikini wax, and its still only a poem. A joke. Only tadpole lyrical. I wish it had a
revolutionary hermit to choke it with fingers that taste like black pepper and motor oil,
and then to rake its fall crumbles into ruffles,
and then all aboard the sci-fi fantasy. /Radiant,
radio the masses, raffia slipping, I got the zipper of my winter coat stuck in orbit, you sea/Ive got a poem to
write about synthetic jungles deep underneath our cities, lush with fiber-optic
wire, you say. Air rich, the mountain.
Find yourselves in dungenous traps: dead-blue thou art.

the japanese sings my song
you repeat the words
grab the bakery and run
you did your daily motion
to the upper side of park
have ride in the night
see  luminosity trembling
horizontally snowing
and other strange things
they fix the holes in the road
you woke up at noon
and have stop dreaming of me
stop dreaming me
i dissolve
everything's calm