WHERE ARE WE GOING?

 

 

I ask as I kick my liver

and caress my lover.

​

You and unzip my fly

and say, “Ghosts and murders,

ghosts and murders.”

​ 

My aorta takes the wheel

and my liver works the shift.

 

Blood, sweat, and semen

flood the convertible and

spill over the sides onto

 

Yellow lines below red mountains,

and black tires sipping sand.

​

I kiss you hard

and slap my spleen

and love my southern lover.