a journal of poetry
BARBARA HAMBYMambo CadillacDrive 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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