I'm lost in a parking lot on the left coast

w/an Afghan Kush and Grey Goose buzz

when Screamin' Jay Hawkins

jumps the Sierra's screaming:

"What can I do w/eighty-six kids

'n each momma wantin' my jam?!"

"Get in motherfucker!" I salvo,

kicking the gas like a mule bucks gravity.

I ping pong between machines

for what? To calibrate my steps

towards the dirt nap? To tend my cell,

my contusions? To email the news

of a fellow cognate's imminent promotion

from this warring plain?

a child of highway and wine

still doing what I did

decades ago. Jazz and the sad momento

following me through town and hamlet

city and scape. Monk's mood and Trane

blowin' by the riverside – finding the notes

coursing the curves. The sun in the East, then West

rising, falling like love itself

bridges, streams – the four way stop.

I never did get back to Topeka.

What was the point? There were pipe bombs

in every direction. Just like here.

Up n down. Forward, back.

Horizon to horizon. Moon to moon

n Grandma's down eight fingers n falling

into her chili n chips as Pop Pop swears at Quick Draw