saturday road trip

when there is nothing

to eat, i sit and swallow

how i got from there

to here. from counting

telephone poles on

south dakota highways

to sun burnt hard-ons in

new york. it’s never been

more complicated than

falling asleep or waking

up, being born or dying.

i’ve never been hungry

since he crawled inside

me. it’s been five hundred

miles, he’s sleeping, and

bruce springsteen is

singing tramps like us

are born to run.

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