How To Draw A Car

Evening San Fran nights are best spent in the streets stirring up trouble with
Happy Jack, are you a fool?—life proved my face to be
Spat upon—that’s a yes, friend. Joints joints marijuana kief joints
Traffic lights reflecting off madcap loonies and stoned
Enthusiasts in their suits and glass towers that rent open the tortured sky
With a metallic riiiip sreeech! Open to angels
And bare-headed smiling oriental garden loving wine tasting chinamen—
Morrison says we must die—what a prophet of Jonestown—
In car, watching city hills rolling past my window,
Feels like I’m miles high, watching the lights of the city roll upon
A canvas of my own mind’s painting—such thoughts surge unchecked
Through my innocent mind as Hank forces the wheel of poor
Aged ‘54 cadillac to squeal like unhappy lovers who couldn’t
Quite get the dime in the coin slot, moan, what a boring love scene,
In observing such playing out in my mind—“dear, we’ll try again in the morning”—“But
I’m drunk!”—“Well then do something other than grab me, I feel
So used”—“But I’m drunk!”—and so on, until Hank finishes his mad
Turn to turn the focus back to the conversation at hand,
Does Rimbaud compare to the complexities of the queer prose
Of Ginsberg, and Kerouac’s capture of the beat american rapture,
I’m sitting drunk in the back seat as Hank turns to me—“what say you,
Love?”—to which I drink my wine and smile belatedly,
I miss blonde haired lovers, Hank perceives such,
“Boy, have we gotta get you fucked by a mad woman!
You are unhappy, a night with a wild brunette will set you straight,
Look at her, standing solemn on the street, what about her?
No wine, boy, no wine.”
—and so on, until I’m sick and tired of listening to mad rants on the mysteries of
Sex and one night stands, I look forward to conversing with Cass
On the subject, perhaps drink and sleep, holding tight,
Promised I’d be faithful, and damn, just waiting—
Watching wine flowing down her dress as she quirks an eyebrow and
Asks “yes?” and cracks a smile to see my expression upon her body,
And back to backseat car ride, not sure where we are headed,
I had never been the one to care, just the one to smile and drink
And smoke to loosen up, to which I then open my soul
Gushing forth and banging the headseat and bursting out,
The world smiles and I laugh, Lucas moans to the pair of fancily adorned
Women on the corner, four way stop, luck dealing him a red light,
Groaning poetry about his journeys to lakes with lovers and red lips
To which the ladies laugh and continue on their way,
Suddenly the radio pushes out another tune,
“hate your next door neighbor,
But don’t forget to say grace”—to which I cry,
“Boys, we’re on the Eve of destruction driving in this mess of a tank,
Let me out!”—O, and poor happy me,
Wine bottle in hand, staggering out on the streets,
Searching for queens, finding wives,
Who are being happy indeed, I feel as in court, but is
Only my mess of a mind, red wine seeping creeping,
And I stumble into a corner, a hub of activity
Where I observe zen cats passing out on the streets and rocking down hillways
Thumbs in pockets an’ eyen’ the passerbys cold and hard,
Like mankind’s ass,
And to me they stop and share their wares and offer me a ride,
Humbly I stumble into a ’92 subaru white and speeding wildly through San Francisco
Parkways and beaches to churches and diners-cafeterias at midnight.
Humble college boy with cherubic expression and pool eyes with Visions of Cody
Hanging out jacket pocket smiles at me over my meal of beefy soup and
Hard-tack bread, tastes of garlic and vegetable oil—I’m not one to complain—especially
Over the time I rode six hours straight by Amtrak train from Sacramento to Hanford
For Thanksgiving holiday next to hard pimp
And drawing up knees to chin curled against window temple resting on churning rocking
Window watching the countryside melt along melding into towns rusting abandoned
Company windows and loading docks, overgrown yards and farmsteads—needless to say
The boy is a knowledgeable loon talking and in constant motion of combing
Hair back to smile and blink rapidly—muscle spasm?—and talks to me
About novels and classical tone clarity, beating thrumming his ink-stained
Fingertips against the grain of the rusting chipped table at which I sit and
Slurp soup, words coming up against me rising cascading and running clean
Out the other side—I seldom listen to anyone anymore.

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