Bucket Hats and Gonzo Mahayanas

I.

Ossified under Pontius Pilate, my ruminations  eroding

by the corpuscle, steering one-handed down interstate highways

that gurgle the length of terrestrial concern.

II.

Congratulatory sips taken by half-mad dingbats 

who roll their souls in the dirt

just to arise purified, as the horizon spreads

 over toast, a margarine Dali. 

III.

Cumuli hopped up on LSD , bulging cuckoo blue 

over the skies drooped belt buckle. 

“Non compos sobrietas” exclaims Virgil, 

sloshed from the passenger's seat.

Or maybe that's  just the whiskey talking?

IV.

A Blessed cornucopia of the forgotten SpongeBob, 

nonsensical oaths and backseat intercourse. 

As lucid as apple turnover, fat boy; cellophane lungs, 

Hawaiian button downs, pressed chino's, unctuous bucket hats.

V.

Paregoric visions of the flying spaghetti monster's noodly appendages,

Zapata mustaches worn by Mao sympathizers  

who guzzle down  bottle shaped muses to 

quench their inglorious thirsts. 

VI., VI., VI.,

Mestizo,

chorizo,

Evilest Knievel.

VII.

A cigarette's last drag paints histrionic death 

on Baroque tongue, something

straight out of a Caravaggio. 

VIII.

On the radio, Mingus nasally gesticulates toward heaven 

and my watch reminds me that time 

isn't reserved solely for the gentry.

IX.

No, I've never been to Vegas,

but I've done my share of fear and loathing.

Reviews

[L.Edward]

Nothing like a good ol' roadtrip to get the poetic juices rambling. Well-crafted indeed!