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Dear shiny-fast-monstrous-whatever-you-
are. I see you, larger as you approach,
filling the horizon, shadows across
clouds as that bigass steamroller out front
with the long spikes chomping up the earth in oily
plumes-my direction-post-apocalyptic
farm tool. I want to thank you in advance
for the oblivion, and coloring
everything so sexy. Especially me,
after several ___________ [insert vice], all-the-more
attractive and witty and somehow interesting,
including my love of ___________ [insert hobby].
(So much I'll slur my strung-together words.)
What's that you're screaming? (Is that a tug whistle
or a foghorn? It's echoing off the canyon
walls, boulders are shifting their positions.)
"I'm going to die?" Yes? Yes. Some floating
dab of plaque, or bubble of air, at the wrong
intersection, the heart seizes-a robin
trapped in the chimney flue-some river is blocked
or bursts. Yes, right, and sooner rather
than later, yes. Come on ahead then you fuck.
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