I drive from L.A. to Anaheim
in Judy’s four wheel drive, over-murdered
with mileage and cigarette burns.
Judy keeps a stick of dynamite
next to the spare tire. She hates fingerprints,
loves the smell of destruction: burnt rubber
and rust pyre. We’ve taken crash courses
in cleaning ourselves of possessions.
There are two kinds of people and the best ones
think it’s better to explode. The other shoe
will always drop, the piano can’t dangle
above your head. We have nothing of value,
except what we drink. Judy and I
will make this city hum.

Judy told me she can’t remember
the last time she had a decent fuck.
No one could lay pipe like Greg, she says,
pops cork out of the bottle, licks the runoff
on its neck. She won’t think it’s dry enough,
but some people are made to suffer small.
Judy is on a mission from Mars
and I’m her co-pilot. We aim to forget
what we can’t remember. Judy swishes
wine like mouthwash. The color is never
the stain a tooth takes. She grins at me,
grey chompers set to masticate her next thought.
Greg was a cop, she barks as we pass
a trooper who’s hauling a blow-up doll
to his squad car: the mouth appears real
at seventy miles per hour, smeared
in red. I let Greg fuck me with a gun
to my head, she says. I bite myself
to make sure I’m not made of sugar.
Don’t worry, he took the clip out, she dribbles.
Stains ink her only white shirt.

I’m a fluorescent bulb. Imagine that.
Judy burns white-hot in gridlock, practices
tour bus skills on cucumbers. We’ve assholed
California for months, nothing shocks me,
except everything. I’m Midwest. I should
write a book. Everyone’s writing a book.
I recall smearing peanut butter
in Chinese hostels so the rats would come.
I once ate a wedge of triple cream brie
in one sitting. It’s amazing what you
can live with when you drink a lot of water:
flush and repeat. Judy tells me I should
get waxed so I’ll be more aero-dynamic.
Baby, where we’re going, you don’t need hair,
she says as she passes me postage stamp-sized
paper she won in East L.A. last week,
practicing high-school Spanish on aliens.
She drank tequila shots, ran her press-on nails
along dirty rims, dared the ’tender
to give her the worm, agave oozed
from fat sides. She didn’t flinch. Her reward:
a shot and two acid hits. She threw down
pesos and asked if there was a basement
in the Alamo.

Judy laughs at the congress of flies
committing suicide on the windshield.
I want to say a prayer for the departed
but I wiper them sideways instead.
You only die once, and I can think
of a better way to go. I’ll feel
the kick when we reach the turnstile, grab
Judy’s hand. The future me will laugh
so hard I wet myself when a kid trips,
skins knees, loses his balloon. Stop thinking
the ending will be tied up in a velvet
bow, kid. Everyone knows the things you own
end up owning you. Judy will get saved
by Mickey Mouse when she’s marooned
in hysterics on the Jolly Trolley tracks.
I’ll say we should euthanize the homeless
and stop animal testing, giving Mickey
the thumbs up. Judy will choke on fifteen
dollar fries drowned in salt and vinegar
while I walk away to the bathroom
so I can stare at myself. Someone will save her,
but it won’t be me. I’ve been told nothing
matters except you and your woman, but
holes in this desert need filled. I’m an X-ray
with night vision: a sack of bones, shed skin.
I loom primal to reclaim what’s mine.
Everything’s on the hunt. Judy’ll thank
her savior on her knees. I’ll grab a plastic knife,
walk towards the smell of dinner. In the end,
no one’s ready to die on all fours.