Beyond Thunderdome
Let's workshop this poem that amounts to a narrator's love letter (perhaps to a personified version of that mad-max methamphetamine that has mofos crazy--wrecked--out in these streets).
Beyond Thunderdome
I don’t mean to scramble you
or throw you off your rhythm,
your routine. But I figured
it was time you heard from me—
straight up, not buried in art—
what you already know: that—
with some fine print, naturally,
since I lack gritty details
(having never sniffed you up
or slurped your cracks or even
felt in flesh your attitude,
your voltage)—I’m wrecked for you.
