Off the highway ramp,

my feet manage a dance between the pedals,
air so thick it’s hardly
edible inside
my summertime vessel with
broken A/C.

Pass the chapel I was
baptized in an effort to
capsize life within my

abandoned factories once
phylacteries of the American
Dream when

Dad went to work,
Mom raised us and cleaned.

They taught me to spot joy in a line-up,
told me drugs only add
to your mileage, that no man
is an island but

aren’t we?

Like a blade to the artery we wake

up one morning to find we’re all
piss drunk outside
the chapel we once made a
castle of faith in the times
we live,

but the throne God occupied
has since been vacated;

architecture so
require decades to remember
their address,

a paintjob of
regret drowning in the debts of
we should have
amounted to more.


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