I was in the Pinnacles and it was a devastatingly gorgeous day.
Things were looking up, and I was looking up pinnacle on Google.
Of course, everyone around me says they look like cocks
and Freud would have a field day in this phallic forest
out in the middle of Ozymandias terrain, you know, endless nothing
and you're thinking Alfred Hitchcock thoughts, looking over your shoulder
for some sadistic cropduster that may be closing in with cynical glee gas
and your girlfriend, the Italian you thought you lost in an earlier poem
now wants some dinky dunkin out behind the pumpkin patch, natch
and tourists to these regions giggling on the fumes of their lives
snap lucid dreamy photos for Instagram satellite feeds, hello
and there's nowhere to run, you can't hide in a stone penis, it ain't Rushmore, you can't hid in the nose
and why rush, when she's saying more? rubbernecks staring at us like we're car crash victims
entangled and crying out, in our little horror deaths of love, for salvation
and then it begins to rain and the floods come and the ark of the covenant and rainbows, too
and, when we return our renta,l the clerk ponders our mileage as if it were an adage he can't ken
and we savage the grilled barramundi, and over white wine make promises we can't keep
the frisson of our interpenetration still buzzing in our nerve-filled minds and behinds
and when enervation kicks in we'll fall asleep on the conch-filled beach by the sea
up to our necks in sand
