Biko and I are driving in an empty cell lane

We are God’s evil to these settlers

They might throw us under the shift change

We take wolf naps

We don’t know what else we good at

Besides this traveling



Stateliness in a night tide

Passing through beach head America

Passing with hurricane memory

Three thousand exits of sludge bathed apartheid



Everything south of Canada

Is extrajudicial gun oil

And your local unemployment factory



In a few hours we will fit in

relax for now



Hop out the car

And I am a dirty shoe illusion

Leaning on the trunk with the ghosts of switch blades

And other rusty services



I am enemy humor

And traveling



ashes on the back seat

Behind his two sons



In a lane not for metaphor

Well maybe a metaphor for something unfinished



One million hands passing us through the Midwest

Last wishes

By way of fish tail

Daydreams

By way of collisions



Home in the bad lands of translation

Relaxed passing

Great grandparent’s finger bones

Father’s ashes

No longer arms

Just tattoos



Bad land imagination

Barreling

Translating a father’s last trip home



We don’t know what else we good at besides this traveling



Exits in collage

Exits in pieces

Pieces of 1970s kitchen plates

In a good luck refrigerator

We still aint ate



Feeling the narcotic swing

Of how we see yesterday



Hop out the car

Against desperate white supremacy



Gas station greetings

Stray dogs

And other earth-born alarms

We are stray deadly



Against desperate white supremacy

And other senses

That die silly

And have murdered



Ashes traveling

Two coins

Or the toll is us



In a few hours we will fit in



character interstate

On a journey of a million parallels



Barreling like gut born love songs



Your ancestors

laughing as we pass the time

When we ride

It’s language



Past Gary 3000

Caster iron lining

Proud forearms for vulture’s meal

More gut born love songs

Sam Greenly please say more



We don’t know what else we good at

Besides this traveling



Three man ghost story

Fishers of ourselves

Cards dealt

Narrative implied

Something unfinished



Like an Indiana hurricane

Or two midnights in Milwaukee

Or no arms

No tattoos

No Chicago

Ever again



We don’t know what else we good at besides this traveling



And besides

Heaven is all good byes anyway