LA-LA Sings her Song

In arabesques of chrome-steel throb,  
Deserts reaped in copulations,  
Diesel smoke, truck stop’s waiting mouth.  

How moon has cast her fate,  
Family van, panties wet,  
The thrust and boom of flight.  
 
Venice surfer’s curl.  
 
How blonde she seems, how fervent sweet,  
But really steeped in darker skins,  
Slaves: native, stolen, steaming want.  
 
The road takes her flicks home,  
In Kansas wheat field flood,  
The road’s hum taps her soul.  
 
Disneyland awaits!  
 
Bleary eye windows, feigning sleep,  
Thumbing her dawning sun awake,  
Speed passing, slight curves, comes again.  
 
Warm line gives finger slick,  
Now feeling dreams’ slow pull,  
Foggy sun, her life’s grace.  
 
LA-LA sings her song.