I think I'll don a muscle
car and head toward
Huntington Beach.
Icons will lead the way,
and cheerful colors are
powerful medicine.
There's a dotted line down
my chest, and I'm feeling
a bit divided,
but my dead end isn't dead.
It's where the sand begins.
My muscles turn into fins,
but I'm not like a fifties sedan.
Yet the moment I take a bite,
I'm in a cul-de-sac.
I'm reduced to a pair of gonads,
by means of natural selection,
driven to deliver the goods
before my license to drive
is revoked.
How is it that I'm special
when I don't get to see
her face?
Is it possible I made a
wrong turn, or is this a
cosmic joke?
In any case, 'Honey I'm home.'
just seems so ineffectual,
but when express remorse,
I'm told I only asked
for sex.
.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem