hypodermic boulevard

juggling ice with buttered hands it’s how we it’s what we do because in traffic, I rode behind one slow lamming through the gnats like silent dull bangs his tail to my nose as he drives too slow i lay back smoking it and I forget for a second, the rats and race and cracked dead slate turtle shells and drift away into the wisps of mallows seed and the one behind me makes me push. rear view and double yellow left and isn't that how we do isn't that what we are are? Just hate and push the one in front of us and hate and block the one in back of us who would but for some peering tasteless gas lay waste and cancel the one in front and isn't that just what we do? juggling butter in frozen marshland hands in wasteland mind in chains the continuing host for the evolution of the viruses juggling ice-brain waste caves in spent sharp rigs, and birthday cake cans and cigarettes. hypodermic boulevard and the late late shock./ the setting sequined supper of the sixth great extinction. standing behind me; some thing pushes me to push the thing in front of me and that is what a human does to life. what we do, we are.