Six Sixteen Twenty

The virus hangs like fog off that Salt Sea

and they ride the spike like they ride that

yellow dash, crossing it over and over they

laugh they chuckle they cough all over

each other delicious wet fat coughs and

they ride the illness like they ride the spike

like they ride that yellow dash dot solid

through the orange cones compressed

like lungs up the throat of Parley’s

they laugh they laugh they cough

wet and fat and drunk and lying

they laugh they laugh they

cough it all up.