auto assault

& i'm parked & late & busy, & a street kid cycles towards my toyota, "sir," he says, & the
kid is pale & pimpled & toqued, "sir," he says, "you got any spare change," & i shake my
head, i'm parked & late & busy, & he sighs, & he cycles off, & i think oh hell will he
come back while i'm gone, will he come back to trash my car —

the kid does not come back —

but in absentia, guilty by the court of the streets, & the kid rides a dumpster, high gear &
pedal low, stinking rotting flaming, rips through my car, rapes my sleek silver virgin car,
leaves her flat & helpless as a junkie's eyelids at dawn, & the kid sighs, & the kid
rumbles off home less, look what he done to my kar ma —

my guilt is like a wild wired rose.
my guilt is like a joke in plastic wrap
. my guilt is like a parking lot according to pi squared.
my guilt is like an internet urinal.
my guilt is like a dive into a ditch of day-old coffee.
my guilt is like ice cream slathered with sweat.
my guilt is like sex and celery.
my guilt is like air conditioning in the lungs.
my guilt is like a suntan
on the beaches of the brain.
my guilt is like a big box store
that sells spare change on credit.
my guilt is like a petroleum sea,
like the groans of dinosaurs.
my guilt is like this poem's warrantee.
my guilt is like a tourist
cruising southern slums.
my guilt is like the bruised eye
of a tv.
my guilt is like a virtual spider website.
my guilt is like a freeway paved
with pimples and toques.
my guilt is like a street kid on a
cycle, like the dead weight
of coin in my pocket.

it always pays
to bribe the devil —

© Robert Martens