My contributor bio says nothing of my desire for sound,
a gun on my hip, a call to arms for every man who never
loved your nose. Baby, the Libyans are angry. They want
to knock me down, shoot me in the kneecaps. McFly, McFly,
we’re gonna give you a dull ache. We’re gonna chase you
out of this century, make you forget how to be born.
The Libyans’ wagon is tricked the fuck out: dub deuces,
jet packs on the back of everything that can fit a jet pack.
Heavy, I know, but don’t worry, we’ve got a way to get out
of this date. I stole their plutonium so we’re fast, but I hear
you’re faster. I hear you sleep on runaway trains, slick silk
on the back of your neck. I hear your flux capacitor glows
in the dark. Get this, Doc put wheels on the oxen,
glued wings to their matted fur.
He says You’ve got to hit 88 before the Kansas River crossing.
You wanna know about the future. I wanna know, too.
What I do know: I’m too tired to sleep, so we’re just gonna
hang out, maybe play charades in the back of the wagon,
watch each other undress in front of telescopes.
When we get to the future I want to drink your table under you,
call every boy you ever kissed, ask them if your DeLorean
really can fly. Ask me what I’m wondering.
I’ll tell you about the expiration date on forever, I’ll tell you
what it feels like to touch 1.21 gigawatts of power.

***

Gregory Sherl’s most recent books include Heavy Petting (YesYes Books, 2011), Oregon Trail Is the Oregon Trail (Mud Luscious Press, 2012), and Last Night Was Worth Talking About (NAP, 2012). He can be reached at jesuis.gregory@gmail.com and blogs at gregorysherlisgregorysherl.com. Read more of his work and others’ in HFR 1.1.