(Go West, Spill-O)
Spill-O shamed centuries
of American romanticism when he slept
the whole way from JFK to LAX.
He barely caught the cloudy opening strains
of Queens and Brooklyn before he saw the
we’ll-be-landing-in-20-minutes mountains of California.
On the freeways, Spill-O’s eyes invent mountains,
play tricks with the bright smog,
maybe because he drank too much last night, the night before,
and maybe, the night before that.
The sign said the freeway was ending, but it never did.
He drove forever among the sprinklered palms.
Without checking the rearview, he knew
something was following him.
Maybe it was just the jetlag.
Maybe it was just the hangover.
Maybe it was just 10,000 years of the failure of love.
Spill-O overheard the grand design back in April,
when he was undercover,
posing as a ceramic hobo clown.
His styrofoam cup was a bottle opener,
his belly was a lamp and his face was a knife.
Spill-O would sleep and sing songs
when you rubbed his crotch.
He was only $14.95 and shipping was included.