I Wear Mick Jagger's Lips for Socks

I'd run out of juice
with a single muse.

My gray matter's juxtaposed,
sweating after eating
habanero peppers, freezing
from serving revenge cold
with Robert DeNiro
and Al Pacino.
Three across the brain,
let east meet west.

Jack Nicholson swings
a golf club, directing
from a chair on my chest.

Chief's smashing the windows
of my pupils,
busting out of this cuckoo's nest.

George Carlin's stirring
seven words down
my throat's margarita glass,
salt sticking to my larynx.

Jimi Hendrix lifts
the hair on my neck.

Mother Jones carries
a bullhorn in my shadow,
and Rosie the Riveter
clenches my fists.

Swatting cicadas
I've never seen in Savannah,
JFK holds my hand
under an old oak tree.

In the dark, Jeff Healey
plays his guitar on my lap.

Can you hear it gently weep?

The Supremes sing
symphonies from my knees.

A cow's about to calve
above my ankles.
Somehow.

I push my feet
in Mick Jagger's mouth,
wearing his lips like gym socks.

Ai and Erika Sanchez
take turns smacking my back
with Ken Griffey Jr.'s bat,
spitting uncensored words
to the upper deck.

Swung on and belted.

I make room for Sam
Elliott to narrate.
His mustache slants
in place of a tramp stamp.

Jamaal May beats
the drums of (in)justice
in my ears,
popping veins
on the page.

Dad takes us all for a ride
in his '67 Plymouth GTX,
blasts Smoke on the Water
for the sake of nostalgia.
We're all calling SHOTGUN
along with Jr. Walker
& The All-Stars.
Eddie Murphy wants to stuff
bananas in the tailpipe.
Chains drag Coke cans on concrete.
A Just Married sign ripples
like a flag from the exhaust.

There's a gun in the glove box.

Originally published in Write Under the Moon on Medium.