a journal of poetry

Mambo Cadillac 
Drive me to the edge in your Mambo Cadillac, 
	turn left at the graveyard and gas that baby, the black
night ringing with its holy roller scream. Iíll clock
	you on the highway at three a.m., amen, brother, smack 
the road as hard as we can, because Iím gonna crack
	the world in two, make a hoodoo soup with chicken necks,
a gumbo with a plutonium roux, a little snack
	before the dirt and jalape“o stew that will shuck
the skin right off your slinky hips, Mr. Iím-not-stuck
	in-a-middle-class-prison-with-someone-I-hate sack
of blues. Put on your highwire shoes, Mr. Right, and stick
	with me, Ďcause Iím going nowhere fast, the burlesque
queen of this dim scene, I want to feel the wind, the Glock
	in my mouth, going south, down-by-the-riverside shock
of the view. Take me to Shingles Fried Chicken Shack
	in your Mambo Cadillac. I was gone, but Iím back
for good this time. Iíve taken a shine to daylight. Crank
	up that radio, baby, put on some dance music
and shake your moneymaker, sweetheart, rev it up to mach
	two. Iím talking to you, Mr. Magoo. Sit up, check
out that blonde with the leopard print tattoo. O sheíll lick
	the sugar right off your doughnut and bill you, too, speak
French while she do the do. Parlez-vous francais? Okay, pick
	me up tonight at ten in your Mambo Cadillac			
Ďcause we got a date with the devil, so fill the tank
	with high-octane rhythm and blues, sugar cane, and shark
bait, too. We got some miles to cover, me and you, think
	Chile, Argentina, Peru. Take some time off work,
Ďcause weíre gonna be gone a lot longer than a week 
	or two. Is this D-day or Waterloo? White or blackó
itís up to you. Weíll be in Mexico tonight. Pack
	a razor, pack some glue. Things fall apart off the track,
and thatís where weíll be, baby, in your Mambo Cadillac,
	Ďcause youíre looking for love, but Iím looking for a wreck.


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