DOWN THE HIGHWAY IN A CADILLAC 30 MILES WEST OF
Your disgusting feet smell
like oysters! Coco erupted,
driving the ’54 Eldorado
convertible while I played
“Will O’ the Wisp” on the trumpet
in the back, my legs propped
up against the front passenger seat.
Do you know that if I eat
now, the lack of stink will
castrate me? I asked. Headed
for the west coast, the two of us,
afraid of boarding airplanes, eat
a bag of plums, bananas, and limes
all day. Think
we’ll make it
to the Russian Roulette
Coco inquired, her coils of brown hair
blowing underneath her cap.
I’d rather watch silent
about cannibals in the White
Yeah, me too, Coco said, or play
computer Scrabble, tossing the red
baseball cap that read Make
Laugh Again onto the road.
Well, decide: we drive through
today in silence or I paint
pomegranate before we
hit the sack.
We could duct tape each
I suggested. No, just
my nose or wrap your feet,
Spicer has had poems in The American
Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Gargoyle,
Yellow Mama, Rat’s Ass Review,
Magazine, Slim Volume, The New Verse
News, North Dakota Quarterly,
Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Easy Street,
Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc.,
and Prime Number, among others.
He has been nominated for a Best of the Net twice and a Pushcart, and is the
author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke's
Press, 1987), and four chapbooks.
He is also the former editor of Raccoon,
Outlaw, and Ion Books.