I’ll flip my rig over the guardrail.
O! the overpass
on the road below.
Let smoke and phoenix flow
up toward the airplanes
flying so high in the friendly skies
above the summer mist
so burned beyond recognition
you’ll have to call the dentist.
I’m now forever
the mother of computer reenactments
CIA investigations
muter than the asphalt
and that great blue endless sky.
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