The check engine light tangerines

through the dashboard glass

like the ignore me light I slap my roof to

when I choose to challenge the challenger

that never grows too old for us.

You can’t see any pale smoke sewer snaking itself

out of the dehydrated heart

of your road eater that spits out

nothing but hot air

propelled by rusted horses

and the war drums slammed

by the elephant

that surreptitiously organizes

your ego’s wardrobe for you

right before you swear to yourself

that this is the night

you allow yourself

to dream.



The thirsty clicking sound

that’s a decibel away

from being a wolf whisper

to your bank account’s ears

is the equivalent of a diffused reflection–

a reminder coated with the effects of too much

weather experienced and promises

that have missing screws,

bolts,

and time

attached to them.



You’ve watched cars become engulfed

in avoidable hell fire

And yet,



your whip smells too much like the skin

off your back

and too much

like the blood you only owe

the living

that understands the name

that you gave them

will only mean something

as long you suffocate

the gas pedal with twice the audacity

of a check engine light

that tangerines through the dashboard

that helps keep the sewer snakes

from soothing through

intentions only worn by those

who wear their crowns

honorably.



What you’re smelling isn’t smoke.

Its wolf breath,

and the opportunity to prove

how much you want to taste

tomorrow.