John Wayne v. Zorro v. Radio Head

Itch, believe wider words.
Sand off the roughy sound
edges. Cup your
whiskers and look:
a thumpy jigsaw tree.

Beating rings, berry jam
hymns, sticky in a road stop
bathroom stall. Sometimes churches
are torn down and sometimes
they are overwhelmed with holidays.
TIMBER!

This is why there are so
many churches or why
there are no churches. You can see
them if you go gunslinging
across Kansas.

Our Ferrari wind-cabin, our mass
murderer mobile. Wheel your spindle
sabre 'round, stab the needle highway,
bob it all the way
back across.

Fog the windscreen and trace my name
in, tattoo myself in the eye-
back of the prairie. Whips
around our ring tailed
wind sock, our mischievous hymn
antenna.

Learn the languages of engine vibrations.

I drove from Duluth in one
night to Wichita, to prove
I am a lover, a burly
sailor. I bend my ribs back
repeatedly, building a hanging boat
bridge to see your breathing
sounds: your slow roll
up & fall.

I will roll you for
a cigarette, twist at the ends,
and spray ink on the insides
of my lungs. Geeer
up, boy, and shoot!

You, light catcher,
abusing time and times.