My lips are a purple neon portal, my brain
is a bug zapper at a gas station c-store
off interstate 95.
I eat like a sparrow and recite like a myna
so listen for earthworms, but only hear
ear worms from seventies music
crackling kiosk speakers.
There’s a hum from a fluorescent grid and
it’s 4 a.m. in South Carolina. A moth flies
into my mouth and lights a candle and
strawberry incense swirls in the heat.
I count rosary beads like a nun hooked
on Eraserhead. I tell you to buy me
jalapeno flavored pork rinds, but
only if they’re on bogo clearance.
We’re out of money.
There’s no lime green lizard crawling
outta my pants pockets
to tongue at all the faithless flies, so,
I turn on the wipers to clear carcasses.
The blades wheeze, black lung-like,
slurring some New Years speech telling me
to attain the broad, to address the delicate.
I curse the rubber hearses on the dashboard
fouling my view of fresh fishnets
below a disco ball dress,
when you tumble out of the side restroom,
the yellow glowworm flickers,
one last firefly in a field of
blossoming black concrete.
Toilet tissue like gauze
stuck to your lime stiletto,
and I force a mind flush,
ready for one last roll down south.
This poem is a collaboration, and my attempt to elongate an intriguing poem by Iff Ur Abs, a talented poet, and dear friend. Be sure to check out more of his moving works.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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