Got a couple of legs
running down my length,
talking sexy;
the ground listening
and trembling

A Pulp Fiction re-run
provides tempo

My neck
is on a backwards assignment
through curved space,
staring me straight into the face,
my eyes hiding
behind the heat shields of my lids,
my thoughts sidewinders
of pornography,
obsessed with asses and tits

Up to ejaculation
the fuck is all that matters

Then comes philosophy
and careers

Time is careening
down this spine
like a panicky burglar
down a fire escape in Chisholm,
Minnesota,
where Bob Dylan was a toddler
in neighboring Hibbing

The lady drives me back
from a local dance
through the Minnesota night,
her Rambler bouncing
between the snow banks,
parks the vehicle in a snow drift,
staggers into her house,
brings me into her bed,
falling directly into sleep,
her boyfriend retreating
into the night

Next day,
as I return with a hangover,
the lady at The Avalon Hotel
asks me where I was
all night