You are being called
to the Long Road
You are being called
to the Long Road
to crisscross
on cross tracks
never back track
to the fleshy precinct
of my curve-with a swerve
of swivel hips
and the swagger of a fat man,
look where you
found yourself
perched on my shoulder
too close
to my heart...

With silly bated breath
you bang pitchforks
on linoleum counter tops
and wait
for perfect intonation
which always comes up
short of perfect "C".
You wish to crisscross
on cross tracks
bird backs
never backtrack
to where the gypsy cab
picked you up...
where you stood
and waited
with a remoteness
under indigo cyclones-
believed only
in your fantasies
believed only in your prose...
you knew you could
always rewrite them.

You are being called
to the Long Road.
You can't escape it
the voice calling
screaming out of
clicking radiators
and cold showers
calling you
through nickel whores
at Port Authority
and wife-beating
John Denvers.

You are being called
while I have rainbows
on my left shoulder-
while the fact
that I let you
liquefy yourself
on the skin
covering my
intercostal muscles
is not enough of a thrill.
You have perched yourself
now on the upper 3/4
of my breast
too close to my heart
which I want to hide
under my boot.
You have perched yourself
one foot in Lake Ontario
the other on my abdomen-
when I inhale
you rise four inches-
the other foot is bitten by a fish-
and if I sit up
all the way
you will drown.

You are calling yourself
to the Long Road.
You sleep
under duffel bags,
cover yourself
with goose feather road maps
see truck stops
instead of bode gas,
lumberjacks
instead of pimps,
smell pine
instead of musk-
and I only smell you...
when I wanna
wrap myself in a sleeping bag,
tattoo maps
on my back
in green and forest yellow-
you would have
to turn me over
to find out
where you're going-
.......where are you going?
so I can scream prose
to reach you
by your fire
in the mountains,
rise from log
you sit on and
you'd sweat rhymes
sweat patchouli
onto beetle backs
onto train tracks that
take you nowhere
because you heart
has been stolen
by the berry-dust
of the eagle open sky.
While you would be
pulling on
hand-rolled drums
I would be wondering
why you couldn't
love me normal
like the wild animals
you are as a
fox to me-
swift and comely
like you come and go...
................ come and go
.......................come and go
Just go.
'cause the upper 3/4
of my breasts
are becoming sore-
'cause you are off balance
with one foot
in Lake Ontario
and the other
on my face-

'cause the Long Road is calling you-
but before you leave.....

take the rainbow from my left

shoulder.