Whole Sort Of Genl Mish Mash
While struggling up an Appalachian hill
my ’83 Toyota 4x2’s
2-barrelled, aluminum blocked 2.2’s
whirring complaint prompts my pedantic muse
to yank my drumstick/pen, against my will,
from tapping out my grand accompaniment
to Santana’s riff.
An ATM receipt serves as my parchment and
a chewed up, black-inked, PaperMate, my quill.
As I breathe deeply, my lungs take their fill
of engine’s vaporous, gasoline effuse
(I forgot to change that gasket). Static subdues
Ricky Martin’s “Vida Loca” and what ensues
(a petty pleasure, I admit) is an evil thrill
at the yawning ravine’s grand accomplishment.
Laughing, I thank God.
The temperature gauge needles to
the red and I crank the heat higher still.
One last swallow of lukewarm coffee swill,
I toss my polystyrene cup refuse
to the floor just as the radio spews
“…skin the color mocha…”. I pay my dues
For being cruel to Ricky and start uphill
to seek a culinary establishment
to staunch my stomach’s growl.
Dunkin’ Donuts appears above the hill!
Flea banishes static with his base’s thews
as the Red Hot Chili Peppers infuse
my drumstick/pen with new power to bruise
the steering wheel. I pull off to refill
on caffeine and, in contented wonderment,
proceed to savor life.
"If I rest, I rust." - Martin Luther
[This message has been edited by jbouder (edited 01-05-2000).]