Bacchus the Driver

You like sex
And they call you a
god of the Romans,
Adonis or Apollo,
Maybe Bacchus
When you’ve got a hip-flask
Ass-up, cruising Santa Monica
In the age old Ponti’
That breathes fire
From California ozone,
Doesn’t make a lick of difference
Where you store, when you smoke it
Where you snort it,
It all ends up the same color in the end,
People end up the same color
In the end,
Poison-Apple red to snow white,
Sleep it off, princess
And beg dawn for penance.
It comes in orange pops, like
The eight micro bursts rocketing
The Ponti’ towards U.S. 101,
That endless blank horizon,
Cut and spread the eternal ash
With a razor,
The termination dust that flares
Within ourselves like neon lights
On the godless strip.
Florescent teeth, a hunter’s eyes face forward.
The city eats us alive.

she counted change for toll and I

she counted change for toll and I
(broken and lying)
said something I wish I hadn't
(what was it?)
I was sick, burning from the brain down
(dying slow or birthing quick)
shuddering from rough coughs
(or faking it)
she wanted a kiss
(she wanted a fast distraction)
again I coughed, deep
(it hurt and bled a little)
she turned to face the road
(take us across the bridge)
I pressed my head against the glass
(did I fall asleep?)
she watched the asphalt course
(like medicine)
she knows the way back
(I hope)
we pass the time in silence
(or my slumber)
there’s nothing left
(and nothing from the start)
Put your foot to the gas (drive me home)  

Nick Martinez lives in Seattle.