I'm there baking hot. Flat-out in the sun, my guns pumping 225 ten times with a howl. Wash down my workout with vultures and asphalt. I'm all hot-rods and whiskey. The distance to me is measured in musk, mullet flaired-out beneath my "Pembrose Cashews" trucker's cap. I am enveloped in gawks when I strut - from the cab of my road mongrel to the door of any burger hole. My ripples gleam and bulge when I flex, crests of muscle crashing upon shores of sawed-off denim. They'll scare a coyote. But now - just baking hot. Flat-out and 225 howling. Awash in dust and diesel. Cigarette butts and steel-toed grunting. I am so totally all hot-rods and whiskey.

[clapsmatter]

Thank you! That one's called "Hot-Rods and Whiskey". This next one is called "Your Sister Is Not A Christmas Ornament".

Does she look happy? She's crying, Jack. Get me the footstool.

Thank you! I'll be at the bar signing copies of my book Poetism: A Sense-ology.