Thank god the government
doesn’t know how queer I am
here on the bus
dreaming about unicorns, sex,
and this invisible highway
trailing beneath us.
The giant toad
sitting opposite me
begins to speak fluent Chinese
while my friend
pokes at the eye
he claims is beligerently staring at him
from the leg of his trousers.
“Can you take too much of this stuff?”, he asks,
still poking at the invisible eyeball.
“No man…sounds like you took just enough.”
Suddenly the bus screams
with well-dressed young urchins
causing my synapses to drip.
Disgusting flavors
under the influence of gravity
burrow through my thought canals
like tiny vermin.
Christ, maybe I should be angry at god.
This lady got on.
She was dressing by degrees
in these Fahrenheit
and barometer goulashes.
I could feel the aura
of this offensive dress code
rising like a polyester thermometer.
And this lady, man,
this lady–
just looking at her
offered me visual proof
we were all bound for hell.
Rusty Truck 