Even the wind we bucked

is blown away

by million-decibel Rolling

Stones—not singing Bob Nolan’s

Tumbling Tumbleweeds—

reverberating from hatchback to hood

latch of our compact—nope,

not the Monte Carlo Express—

car whizzing like a full-metal jacketed

hundred-grain projectile

between Ely and Elko. We are taking LSD—

Long Sagebrush Drives—

through peopleless open

space that would bloody bummer-trip

Mick and Keith from their beauty

of a bluesy combination plate

pharmaceutical-booze high. Rocking

to lewd lyrics in the rolling

Voodoo Lou, we have named Her

for Her knack to make it

to the next station, nothing

sloshing in Her tank

but a gasoline flashback. Call this true love

for the sexy sixties. Say we are a secret

missile being

tested by the Cowboy

Poetry Conspiracy

in Nevada, land of the clandestine—

land blasted to smithereens

by the megaton munchie-crazed psycho-

dellic mushroom-clouded minds

of no rhyme nor reason—land of high

desert home where The Incredible

Burning Man roams, of blue lane

laser travel by two

fanatic rock-’n’-buckroll

shoot-the-moon lunatics

wagering it all, with crap table odds,

against a gas gauge

as we casually talk

vegetarian chuck and cowboy

music in a culture-

shock of confused fission gone a.w.o.l.

to the meterless beat of too-slim

Mick Jagger crooning

Sparks WILL fly

all the way from E-LYE

while we, Geiger counters crackling

wild in the Voodoo Lou, do too.