I am rather grizzled and living on the outskirts of the desert.
We play Vivaldi in our dune buggies.
Cooter caught another possum tonight.
Every night it's either chocolate milk, or chocolate milk and burbon.
The campfire stories make it worthwhile.
Some of the guys from the quiki-mart have an existential streak.
Truckers on crank get corn dogs at 3am under flourescent light.
Red christmans tree car fresheners will do that I reckon.
Okay... it's daytime now.
I count the brassieres on the boulevard.
There are women wearing them too.
It's only 4 blocks from dairy queen to Jim's market to the post office.
Is it wrong to long for suppleness? To see the future in a smell?
I hide the glint in my hungry eyes, my dirty greasy hands.
The chew in my mouth makes the gums numb.
I am a figment
stuck in noontime sun
by the side of a dirt road
without a soda.
Who am I?
What purpose could I possibly serve?