Chunk-slab plaster, chunk-slab plaster, plaster-chunk
Grape-juice rottened, hardened heaving throats; we
alternate sour stomachs down the crooked path.
Communal voyages reiterate our state.
Slight-dry mouths, sunken drawls, brawling
Blood; sustain our Sorrow-Full-life. Nothing,
Nothing compares to wind-blown hair, blown south.
Nobody dare cares to box-car travel,
oil-growl, car-handle, down the interstate 5.
2004. By Jessica Rae Cortez.