MARZIPAN TARPITS AND ALL OF MY TINSEL

the morning had no coffee. just had 98 degrees by 10 am
and a barn on the lean in the distance.
where time never cuts the grass and nothing happens.
dirt roads pray for death or slow traffic. and clouds like smoke
from a bellicose pipe… on the lips of a medicine man
who became a woman when a cloud called him “ medicine man “
while the peyote was barking without dogs, was unleashed
to prairie in the marsh where the bogs agog
with summer candy in its peat moss.
no dowsing rod to spare a child the ridicule of finding god’s pond
with a stick obeying a cop.
the morning had no mirrors. just broken glass and aspartame
and very minor miracles. not part of a red sea. only dust mites
and last night’s vodka. the trucks won’t stop complaining
about the radio. because you have no radio.
and when you sing on those long trips to the corner store…
your truck is like “ what the fuck? “
and “ this guy must hate trucks….” and sundry regalia of suffering
with a hole in the muffler and a tone-deaf pilgrim
on half a tank of sunshine and vermouth.

and a dent
in a twist.