like i would be caught dead in georgia

teargarden font p.

i'd been riding all day,
riding past the windows with their sales and engines,
the sad-voiced speakers touting tuberous wonders.

riding next to nothing with the bank clacked in it.
riding down the highway where
the shapes of chairs repeat like clack-clackerly,
velveted, doused in musk and extrinsic tastes.
tied down with bows the size of mule sides.

blown. fully. cross-roaded.

i rode down a crankhole, rustled me up some shankbratch,
dirty as any drippled touseling thing.
rode me into town and routed me out a slink and some milk.

held off on the whisting, the whiloming, the ankle-strapped
ambergris god with the plating like bitlip platinum honey-smeared
honey-glazed lip. i rode in to see him but i brought him
nothing
and for that he speared me,

shucked acreless.

acreless, i crossed enraging, irradiated. one ankle over another.

i ate six seeds.

crunch crunch. crunch. crunch crunch crunch.