Red/stop hands reflect on the
sides of passing silver buses.
Who can now discern what’s
nuclear, what simply oil or pre-
digital? Ladders, elongated hopes,
quiet streets & busy boulevards.
With disregard for the French.
Speak slowly. Totally super is
this power struggle between my
own two hands. We drive coast
to coast, strung out, tour-tight,
alternating as headlines on our
double-sided bill: cash riders,
midnight sound checks, set lists
written in Texta across each
groupie’s breasts. No encores.
