I have no responsibilities to tell you about,
This isn’t my job, so if I slip up,
And I’m amateur hour
It won’t affect my pay.
Maybe I should open myself more to risk.
I love the smell of motorcycles,
And once I saw a gargoyle leaving his post
For swimming water.
One of my headlights is out.
The road clears its own throat:
The radio once I get to a certain point on 30 is
Satanic gospel.
But when I come down the mountain the
Sun is there to shine on a world superstitious of loss.
They bake their fallen leaves.
They reimagine the dead in uniform.
There’s a Gulf station in Art Deco
In need of an army.
There’s a duck no one ever saw before but me;
But everyone sticks up for him.
The alphabet was made out of mystery.
I’m sure it wasn’t perfect; I’m sure there were
Hard feelings shared between
The P and the R people.
But someone in the Hawthorne village anticipated
The wilderness of their thinking, and A became A thing.
And everybody followed.
The R lost its trunk and the P became
A predicate form. When the two looked at the Q
They imagined breakfast on their day off.
It was as if in begging, the tongue of
Humanity spoke and did its duty for once.
It was as if the people said for once,
Let us speak for ourselves.
