We no longer drive with the top down,
half-listening to the Beach Boys--
seat belt flapping in the breeze,
or tucked safely out of the way--
muscling up and down a Gulf Coast highway.

But I'm just on a dream bender:
80 year old Vargas models smoking Camels
in the flip-top oasis of my soul.

Mind if I plop down here?
Thinking I'd like to lurk in this Nicotine patch,
getting flat fixed,
no demons except in things, U know.

A sweeping statement
for which U may want to add qualifications.
Qualifications legion as the bubbles
gathered at the brim of an Irish Whiskey
like traditional masses of frog spawn,
out of which bulbous, nervous, sociopathic wise guys
are about to wiggle forth and look for somebody to bust.

U know I would.  As a matter of fact:
U could be so much more to me than a Cigarette Girl
who prowls my dreams on photo shopped legs,
expression like a wad of gum in an ashtray.

Who cares if U keep flicking your cell phone
like an empty Bic. Must be piqued about something.
6 inch heels, cheetah skin shoes.

The high heels make God seem shorter, don't they.
Nothing wrong with that.

I get a lot of flats.
Would you like to hear about this one?
Or how the nails of the past were made of solid gold.
That devils buzzed through the air in plain sight.

But U go ahead and keep staring at the ceiling fan,
nothing wrong with that.
I'll just sit here admiring your beautiful legs.
I like how U keep
giving that butterfly tattoo
that has landed on your ankle the ride of his life.

U know the future is afraid of us.
Blank billboards that once advertised Pall Malls
now just wait for some genius
in a hoody to tag them.

A genius that probably never heard of Vargas.

Do U ever wonder why more and more cops
keep pulling up outside this dream with their lights on?
Strange name for a dream: coconut458.

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