A skeleton on a bicycle
rides off towards
the brown horizon,
grinning his graveyard smile.
He's just left Las Vegas,
headed for the Sunset Strip
and a 4 a.m. rendezvous
with a ninety-year old hooker
who promised him a real good time.
She's got plenty of skin,
he's got plenty of bones,
and together they'll conceive
a mummified baby john
to run the cockroach farm
in Burbank.
A ball of hamburger bags
and lottery slips blows
across the highway, bounces over
the cyclone fence guarding the secret
horsemeat factory, where next year's
congressmen and movie stars
are being manufactured.
The previous generation,
had a twenty percent
annual return. Not bad,
but not as good as the spiders
that hatched inside his head last week
now riding in his Starbucks travel cup.
They're excited, having never seen
the weeds and dust of Hollywood
where dreams are made
and sold like popsicles,
from the back of a paint-blistered van
piping tunes from Disney cartoons.
Luring children to the Griffith Park cave
where their brains will be replaced
with circuit boards connected directly
to Amazon, the Federal Reserve, and Twitter.
Two hundred miles to go
on old Route Sixty Six,
Mr Bones spies a motel.
The neon vacancy sign sizzles pink,
then black, fizzles pink, winks out.
He considers stopping for the night.
Perhaps there'll be some fellow travelers
to join him. Play some Texas Hold'em
or toss some dice.
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