Cranberry Moose Crammed in a seat on a psychedelic charter bus full of chattering teenagers
cramped in a seat with my gargantuan CD case or backpack full of books and plates and toiletries sandwiching you like you’re a scrumptious condiment
wishing in my seat just to write brilliant poetry that’s either really trippy philosophical or of much sociopolitical import
feeling in my seat not so inspired cuz I gotta bust free fore I throw my head into a trip or raging seizure
waiting in my seat to evacuate the excrement packed in my rectum
but that would be imprudent, no?
and impleasant, no?
to sit the remaining hour in my own shit,
so I figure I’ll kick back (as far as I can),
and cram my knees up against the seat in front of me
listen to Acid Mothers Temple, deranged experimental Japanese music that is in my discman sitting primply on my lap,
and let
walls of sound
carry me on the tips of their wavelengths
to Massachussets