46 and 9/10’s

the emptiness is like the insides of
old shoes and the dogs howl    in the
rain, viciousness means simply
staying alive
and   the fruit jars jump up and
down,
I drive into the gas station
in my 67 Volks
there’s a woman sitting ahead of
me
I honk
she looks back
I honk again
make a motion with my hand
for her to get out and pour some
gas into her tin buggy.   she looks
astonished.
it’s a cut-rate gas station and
we all suffer in long lines of
Arabic doom.
the attendant finally
handles her
affairs.   she tells him about me:
I am a bastard–no style, no
wavering toward the decency of
general and ultimate
things. I
look at her ass
decide I don’t like it
much.   she looks at my face
decides as much.   as she
drives off I lift the
hood
grab the nozzle and think,
nobody’s   out to fuck me
I just don’t feel in the mood
for it.
when the attendant walks up
I see by his face
that he feels the same way.
I pay, ask him the directions
to Beverly Hills and drive off
into the sick dropping
pink sun.