Mama Told You Not to Come

 

 

I

 

I am not the hitchhiker to end all hitchhikers.

The bus stranded me in Crescent City, California

with a MySpace account and charisma brochure.

Now I am full of total reality goals. No shit.

S. scrambles eggs and hemlock. She is, you know,

a “shawl girl.” M. solders flower urns for the set of

Martha Stewart Living. What? A living. It’s called

living. With heirloom mugs, hobbies straight off

slow movies, wet-one-today-eh, gas station X-

mas lights. Over here! We are careful as hell.

 

II

 

This is not the town to end all towns. Please:

replace the hammers with hand-shaped hammers.

Town. Tow truck. Trowel. Travis fries bacon all

night. Travis is a father. Travis? Are you up?

You are just the sort of Travis we expected.

Over here! You, who are a father. Who, once,

was not a NASCAR matador? We hugged nickels.

We threw pshaw at the cardboard. One specific

beard washes up on shore and then some. Send

helicopters to drag the ocean for the culprit.

Please save us from this beard! Danger: stranger

hair. Last seen in mackinaws and torn belts.

Plus on Ferris wheels, a thumb out for that blue

ride. Be kind to the sketch artist. He’s dead.