Eventually it happens.
Smoke seethes from under the hood.
Bleary-eyed, & miles & miles
of pythonic asphalt splitting
open the middle of nowhere.
Pretty like drugs sky; keys in the ignition.
The lit match you flick switchblades
into the backseat. Oasis’ quivering halo:
Vacancy & in peeling script: Paradise Inn.
Blood in the sink.
No—rust. Broken bottles, crushed
cigarettes, diamond encrusted rattlesnakes.
At the bar, rocks glass.
You’re in the wrong place
at the right time, sour breath, billiard balls clacking …
but you’re already beyond those yelping
doors, out where the Ouroboros
world ends & begins, the black & blue
mountains arch their spines
beneath a tzardom of star gristle.
Howl bedeviled moon.
Like putting the tip of your tongue
to the spot lightning’s struck
with its brass knuckles.
You lick your lips, they taste like—what else?—ash
& venom; sunshine & gasoline;
nicotine & salt from where the gash
across your mouth has reopened
clarion above a desert coliseum.