• The left side-view mirror displayed
    my mop top as fringing from the squall;
    hair tasting the blow of a wall like
    the straw-sucking nose that
    now curved from a hard day's night
    of Forward Control kissing the club
    and its mojo filter went flying;
    free of bolted limbo.

    My mullet of Bowie's spoke to the innards
    of the Gremlin X which stressed
    the compressed freedom in steel
    that appealed to the squalls coming at the rear
    from pedestrians knocked up on fear
    who couldn't be curbed
    from the catalytic converter.

    A right-view mirror was crushed
    like the Mohawk spikes on my head
    in a red Punk Plymouth that voyaged
    the squalls of air to aging vinyl sides
    that stained in the Orwellian rain—
    The Ramones who were Too Tough to Die.

    The Explorer deployed my final evasion
    within the gashed grungy hair and
    tore in lumps that stuck to the floor
    making me squall the sounds of labor.