Hollywood

Jack London lion breath

over cerveza y conch (conch)

at an undisclosed location in central amerika (tentative title)

rears its heavy heart & holds it aloft like a flag

catching the late medicine winds of sundown

interleaving the trace elements

of a sporadic lucidity leaning up

against the vast tidal sweep.

Volcanic temblors in a dirt floor cantina at 2:00 in the afternoon of a dusty future where you carry a .45 automatic & some prayer beads.

Cables connecting

personal blood ties & the visions elicited by them

are the kind of road songs

Deke Thornton forgot to telegraph Townes that night in El Paso.

The senoritas flashing their thighs in the damp moonlit streets of

eternality & salvation.

Yeah.

I’m slamming sideways on a pint of amber,

not scoping the horizon for auras nor annotating the

greater narrative & lyric payload,

but tipping my consciousness to the Dark Lord

I buy a one-way ticket

to Hollywood.