Issue 28, Summer-Fall 1962
Drive that bastard semi, good buddy, Frisco
to Phoenix run once more though corpse lay buried
under family’s bouquets, outfit’s floral
wreath, and dirt six feet, meet in time for double
shot before we hit the rack. God damn me lone.
Who give road, rush load, blowout, and driver dead?
What rotgut sousing’ll stop this bitter mouth?
McCarthy’s place, empty fucking stool, ashtray,
glass, cold drafts. Rawkus bitch, laugh; wino, slobber.
Build you one sure everlasting monuement
inside my head, ole boy, where none can bother,