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mary-jane and acetaminophen:
that’s what i’m on
as i’m cruising one-hundred-and-ten
kilometers-an-hour
through an atmospheric storm…

yeeeEEEEEEE-HAAAAWWWWWWW!

i’m wearing year-old prescriptions i’ve hardly had on
to increase my vision like 8K VR
as if ’twere a simulator of Schrodinger’s Cat
and if i’m speaking unequivocally,
i can hardly see.
“where’s your position of safety now,
Mister Ex First-Aider?”

my radio is supposed to tell me what song is playing
but the signal is shit in the valley
as the RDS for the country station proudly declares
the Taylor Swift marathon is never-ending.
i suppose there’s a part of me who’s proud
he can’t differentiate between her works
like a true Swiftie could avow
though i still know what a Chalamet looks like
behind that bottle of Chanel number bleu,
interrupting a new episode of “Hot Bench” on the tube,
as much as i don’t want to,
and stand in observance of Lynch’s
over Villeneuve’s “Dune”;

the drive is forty-minutes long.
i’m racing through thoughts,
speeding along like i’m
in one of those old mechanical arcade games that don’t even keep track
of what score your on:
only how much time you have left on your coin.
thinking about things like:
am i the creepy one in my department?
if i’m the one asking then
i probably am;

oh Taylor,
sweet Taylor,
you for whom i say i do not care –
and know that when i say Taylor
i don’t mean that redhead from grade seven
who wrote her name on my heart in pen,
and then i made a scene like i was made to
and the guys let me forget it never again;

a fucking white Tesla is trying to pass me.
i move over and this asshole is STILL tailgating!
you took our order and our money on Monday
and now it’s a week Tuesday
so how come our dashboard doesn’t say our weed’s shipping?
probably on low battery, racing for a charging.
the song playing now i’m pretty sure is Signora Swift’s:
singing out-loud about being fifteen
when last i checked she’s well into thirty.
that’s like Rebecca Black doomed to sing about Fridays
when every day for a hustler should be a Monday;

i remember
how pretty you looked years ago numbered eleven
after “Red” just came out,
and you took those glam shots with no makeup on.
i had that as my desktop wallpaper
for longer than a night and shorter than is long.
maybe TV was right
on that show “The Irrational”
when that Jesse L. Martin fellow said memory is unreliable.
maybe she wore make-up after all,
and that’s why i can’t again find those photos:
because of her control team of lizard people;

finally!
that Tesla whips on by –
good luck and God speed, Mr. or Mrs. Fast Guy!
they disappear past the draw-distance line.

window down, fucking rain on my face,
in my eyes somehow as i blow out the smoke –
a bit of excitement amidst all the malaise
and i shrug it off like no one can hear me
and my passive-aggressive attention-seeking:
my girlfriend’s at home, i’m all alone,
and it’s two-thirty in the God-damned morning!

//wd 1.6.2024

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