"Go West," Young Heathen

in a sleek,
black covered wagon
brimming with boxes of
trade paperbacks
and nosebleeds.

Carry me through the wheel
ruts of Jim Beam and streams
of No One Special, snorting
Bitch, pawing threats.

Pray, set me down at the rest stop
of mashed potatoes.
I’ll lie there until my fingers
wrinkle and my heart
is Moose.

Then drop me in Noe Valley,
where I will marry
a smothered burrito
but fall in love
with a new bridge.