on some barebacked intersection
in TRUE st. louis
the arch glinting ovular
cool wicked smokestacks, big street-lining boxes belching smoke
in lovely toxic billow-clouds
river a shiny gurgling massive black thing
the city on downers
casinos hooked to forever wires,
on floodwall banks.
I am running out of consciousness the way men run out of toilet paper
and I've lost even my hands to wipe with.
She will look so much like an innocent
lodged on that corner with a sno-cap, suitcase and raggedy-ann-doll face
that she'll rupture me from my writers jam
erupt lines till I come splayed back together
the sinister saint
willing my sedan to jut to the next lane
and catch highway pylons like spears through the windshield then through the chest
the blood and all those runny intestine parts
then drive on down
to that mega-bus stop
where raggedy-ann sits awaiting.