When I summon help,
the roads fill with drunken ambulance drivers,
sipping [whiskey|Jack] Daniels between chest compressions.
Though I broke my arm—
my wrist—
my pen—
my head swims
in rivers of [narcotics],
that flow like sewage through my bloodstream.
I drink tequila to navigate
and urinate for [ballast].

When the stars burn like boiling [polaroids],
guitars drop their hooks into the water.
I buoy my thoughts there,
to think my way back to myself.

From the [cockpit] of a rusting sedan
[dashboard] needles wade through blood,
to push me faster through empty miles.
Confident as a full [full house|boat] of jacks and kings
against the fourth ten on the [texas hold em|river],

I am all in.

The painted lines and stop signs disappear,
while miles of [highway] laminate
under the glow of street lights.
My face distorts in the tinted windows
of a stretched limo,
which stops at the next intersection
and opens its doors.
Clowns pour out to direct traffic
with tambourines and trumpets.

The traffic is not amused.

Brake lights glare,
horns scream and search the air like snake tongues,
as I slither onto a sidewalk stained with gum and
cigarette butts.
I follow discarded trails of modern [Museum of Modern Art|art].
The wind blows cold [ant-hills] onto my arms.
I breath to warm myself,
I weave invisible [tapestries] into the air as I walk.
I make all the right left turns
and discard the yoke of cities,
traveling to the [suburbs].

In a moment I make a life for myself,
and in three more
it is gone.

Bushwhacking