A few hours after Des Moines
the toilet overflowed1.
This wasn't the adventure it sounds.
I sat with a man whose tattoos2
weighed more than I did.
He played Hendrix on mouth guitar.
His Electric Ladyland lips
weren't fast enough
and if pitch and melody
are the rudiments3 of music，
this was just
memory， a body nostalgic
for the touch of adored sound.
Hope's a smaller thing on a bus.
You hope a forgotten smoke consorts4
with lint5 in the pocket of last
resort to be upwind
of the human condition， that the baby
sleeps
and when this never happens，
that she cries
with the lullaby meter of the sea.
We were swallowed by rhythm.
The ultra blond
who removed her wig6 and applied7
fresh loops of duct tape
to her skull8，
her companion who held a mirror
and popped his dentures
in and out of place，
the boy who cut stuffing
from the seat where his mother
should have been
there was a little more sleep
in our thoughts，
it was easier to yield.
To what， exactly
the suspicion that what we watch
watches back，
cornfields that stare at our hands，
downtowns
that hold us in their windows
through the night？
Or faith， strange to feel
in that zoo of manners.
I had drool on my shirt and breath
of the undead， a guy
dropped empty Buds on the floor
like gravity was born
to provide this service，
we were white and black trash
who'd come
in an outhouse on wheels and still
some had grown
in touching9 the spirited shirts
on clotheslines，
after watching a sky of starlings
flow like cursive
over wheatback into creatures
capable of a wish.
As we entered Arizona
I thought I smelled the ocean，
liked the lie of this
and closed my eyes
as shadows
puppeted against my lids.
We brought our failures with us，
their taste， their smell.
But the kid
who threw up in the back
pushed to the window anyway，
opened it
and let the wind clean his face，
screamed something
I couldn't make out
but agreed with
in shape， a sound I recognized
as everything I'd come so far
to give away.