“For the love of Christ!”

I saw this morning morning’s moron, king-
  dork of lame-brained driving, dented door-dinged Falcon, in his riding
  Oh the rolling Michelins underneath him needed air, & biding
time there, how he hung upon both lanes o’er the line talking
On his cell phone! then off, toward the median to swing,
  As a trash bag sweeps smooth on a cross-wind: and sudden sliding
  Cut off my poor truck. My hand in hiding
Stirred for a bird, — disbelief of, stupidity of the thing!

Rear window with velour & dog, oh, smoke, brake, turn, “hey,
  Signal!” AND the fish plaque stuck to his tail, a Christian
Turns made suddenly, so close at hand to that Chevrolet!
  The dunderhead he sheer plods to plough pedestrians
Swine, & Cheney-Bush fan, USA.
  “Fool, fuck yourself, and (YES) your mount equestrian!”

1. 
   Ron 2005 03 05 at 12:27:22 am

   Christ, you never told me you were a Catholic girl.

2. 
   tost 2005 03 05 at 2:37:50 am

   I believe the Whitman poem actually ended, “and the horse you rode in on.”

3. 
   Chris Clarke 2005 03 05 at 3:13:17 am

   Actually, Ron, I wasn’t.

   But it was a Catholic girl that taught me the Hopkins.

   Well, she was about 60 years old.

   In a black dress.

   With matching hat.

4. 
   Chris Clarke 2005 03 05 at 3:15:13 am

   Oh, and I edited the invocation shortly after publishing to a form I liked better.

5. 
   corndog 2005 03 08 at 1:16:32 pm

   I particularly like the way you kept “stirred for a bird” with a whole new meaning.  Bravo.