I try to hold my breath
every time I drive through you:
the breath of your busy life
exhausts me, clubs me
with broken tail pipes, clouds
my vision like clouds rise
puppet strings over the refinery
I’m sleeping it off in the alley
behind Crazy Irene’s. Outa Gas.
Steve finally got a blow job
from that tall transvestite at the end
of the bar. And I thought she was a god.