i confess to you, then, 
i have a love of strip malls & highway turn offs.
the blood of America is a rich,
thick purgatory. a population
a bottle cap car door open, i wait in the back seat
& watch a herd of shopping
carts. mouths full of popcorn.
their plastic hair nets.
a perm. a dorito bag to craw
into-- inhale orange salt.
the surface of jupiter has
nothing to do with us. 
it is indifferent & so is France
& all the beautiful places
where writers should go.
move closer to the water.
by a house & marry poet.
i love the strip malls because
they're so tense & someone
has almost always gotten 
a 12$ hair cut & feels 
a new caress of air. the wind 
off of asphalt is parental. 
the parking spots are beds
if you need to lay down.
there's so so so so many 
bodies to never meet in a pillowcase.
a magazine drunk with 
rain & blowing to pieces.
my lips red & getting redder.
i have a turn signal in my throat.
the car will start or
the street lamps will
turn again into tall perfect
women, their flash lights
on the porch. their teeth
full of night bugs.