“Thump!” Canoe onna freeway, “Thump-a-thump!” ashes, paper-cup’s; traffic-jam typewriters, –All fall down! strewn about, ‘n’ all around, black! ROYAL speed-bumps, blossoming white flags of surrender, flapping, snappily, at half-mast, poems..half-written, –typed! corrections, pencilled in, falling off cars’ million roofs driven by POETS drivel! driving past Culver City, without a poet’s-license, westbound for Santa Mont-i-ca, the beach, –Drive on! drive on! Oh..I see a tree! my poet-canoe’s being paddled up Dry Creek off 101 n., see? ‘n’ that’s what I could use her,HERE! good paddling, for piddling..piddling, hear? piddling – her’n’there,’n’ev’rywhere – ‘way the hours passed, piddling..past El Segundo, billboard to the left: LUCKY STRIKE! drilling for oil in rush hour’s marsh, thee HOUR GANG gang, pen in hand, –‘Scribblingfuries’, oriental cat with his poets’ chop’s, reaches for lunch-box with a picture of Mao ‘n’ Roy Rogers..Ow! poet-commuters/consumers – all stripes – aimless, idealess ideologues, idlers rolling, rolling ‘long with Big Chief Lockstep’s concrete caravan, “Woo-woo! Woo-woo!” heading down Rose Parade’s nowheres. Blue woman, HER! vaulted cavernous sky-scape tipi; eagle feathers ‘n’ war-cries, Hoops! smoke-signal’s sunrise reflecting in tunnels, beam’d from walls of glass..golden, bending lights to heaven! kecking, sodden eyeballs to curb..hunger, –who, me? what..when..who? Why! it’s Tom O’Hawks, fine Irish poet and none other. Step up to the plate, young brave one, and show ’em what you got..Drive-thru Strike-out’s ‘n’ poetry-slam’s, –“Hey! batter, batter..” The pitch! Batter, batter..the pancake batter, it’s on my chest! my red-hot poet’s heart’ll, do the rest, –REST? Spatula! flipping spirits!! silver dollars..and coffee, no rest (Ughh). Can we wrest this poem from my brain? (Sigh) it’s not the best. Road’s rage, poets’ rage, –rage,RAGE! it’s all the rage, it’s just..are going through a stage. All the world IS