Road Warrior

smoked a joint in Colorado Springs,

whiskey and gin on an L.A. beach,

drove a couple thousand miles 
in someone else’s car, but it

wasn’t yours and neither was the joint or the beach
or the whiskey or the company.

drove someone else’s car
through cornfields of rubber shrapnel
discarded atop the freeway’s lovehandles
by bad luck
entropy’s grin.

drank the bourbon of
original sin
didn’t believe a word of my own rhetoric.

High-definition epiphanies rolled
past the open window
24 frames a second,

and I
must’ve disrupted the revelry a hundred times by checking Facebook
to see if you had
liked my status;

the pathetic byproduct
of interconnected irrelevance,

I guess.

And there’s a
couple girls I could
fuck back in Houston, and

maybe one at Austin City Limits, but I

was ankle-deep in the pacific for the very first time, and honey,
distance makes all the difference
the world.

Vision distorted and dismissive;

life’s a bitch
and she’s
in a seductive position, trying

to convince me
she’s worth impregnating, re-creating,

despite all the evidence 
to the 

Finality waiting with
open arms, and

I guess

we only write songs
for the lies we
to make real.

Willie Watt


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