I counterfeited my life
from an archive print
of Godard, and took
the black as my wife
punctured by light
in the back of a car
and we went with it.
Intuit the wheel
as you’re pulled through it;
make like a god and Just Do It—
a girl and a gun sprint
like a rocket pars pro toto from
the Sign to the Whisky
in one night, what a flight.
Two fameless fires smoking
outside with the stalkers,
we make a right and turn onto
Vine, and like veiled vipers,
spit harried myths like real liars
until Sunset; the dusk breath
that denies ours inflates then retires.
Breaks from the law, and from
the neck, inspiring awe, we’ve
stolen hearts and made off—and out—
with each other—we play Truth
or Consequences tonight,
and the limes in NM are so bright;
so long, Desire—we’re in Fucking, Austria.
Exile feels so right; imagine you, listless;
you daughter of Joyce; one more scene
and we’ll be in every paper from Variety,
to the Times, to the Village Voice—the post-war
glowering flower-children rebelling with no
statement to make or for which to fight—
a girl and a gun worn-out like denim.