I want to
Go to a gas station and buy
A cheap pack of cigarettes like we used
To do. Smoke every last one in the pack, and then try
To smoke the pack itself while slurping and sloshing
On coffee. Come on, you remember
The days in which we would drive
For miles and then drive some more, and get out
In the middle of nowhere and just
Scream. Scream at the moon, its yellow mug
In the sky giving us a bit of fighting laughter.
Remember, we would scream at the passing
Cars and throw broken beer
Bottles at windows, and then run from cops like
Kids running from drunken, toothless fathers. What
Happened? Did the man finally come hunting and howling
For you with lights blaring and sirens
Radiating? I think you lost yourself down
Along the ninety-one freeway going about a hundred and five in a
Sixty five while giving the middle finger to every damn
Speckled window and aging man. Damn it, brother, why can’t you
Come back to where I am now? Why can’t you comb
Your hair and look like James Dean, trim up that beard
And look like Maxim magazines most wanted man? I could hit you
For being Drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning. But I won’t. I’ll just
Write poetry about my brother, and how I want
To hit you so bad that my fingers
Bleed in a sense while typing this. God
Damn it. God damn it, brother.
Rusty Truck 