For Alex Burford
Banshees for shoes, the dearth of the Super Wal✭Mart.
The rainbow oil builds up in the causeway, choking
the road. The turrets overlooking the valley crane
to see the blood and smoke. Hawked pills crushed
and flayed sing down the highway.
Sonic workers trade blue for yellow, yellow for back--
A Derrida impressionist goes héhé out
the window. The smell of hot, wet pavement and fries
digs at your tusks as the main veins of the moment
collapse into themselves and then out again.