glazed testament to hallucinogens, she was a suede boot
case study in spiritual quests gone permanently wrong,
out searching the tortillerias and mechanic shops
of lower valley El Paso for
Mick Jagger, or a fix, she needed to faint
in a demigod’s presence,
she needed purpose.
and a quarter
to feel
rock and roll
flatten her permed bangs with
distorted dirty talk guitars and drum rolls,
watering her dried up carcass with patchouli and sweat.
but before I could donate, her
mascara smudged smoke eyes shot open
and she leopard stiletto sped her El Camino
towards the desert mirage
of a resurrected record cover, her
exhaust pipe streaming ideological contradictions
behind her like the arc of a falling star.
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