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   w e    w e n t    s p e e d i n g,    m e m p h i s    1 9 7 2

--- H A R V E Y   G O L D N E R

At first light, wild albino pigs in a pack
emerge from the forest and enter a field
(here and there, patches of mist) to feed
on ripening cantaloupes that they have

crushed with their feet. Full, they snooze, and then the crows arrive, caw and feast. Meanwhile the farmer, having fallen asleep in the gentle rocking of an ancient book,

emerges from his dreams—a dark tangle of fears—and he smokes a corncob pipe on his dewy porch. His dewy bride, brain pregnant with twin stuffies, Charlie Manson and Elvis

Presley, remains under covers and masturbates, hot twat rocking. Her vision: she rides on the rippling back of a white stallion, Roy Orbison. We cut classes and hotwire our History professor's

Masserati, cherry-red & topless, and we go speeding through the Mississippi honeysuckle countryside, the starlit kudzu night, drinking beers, tossing the empty cans straight up—Emerson, Lake & Palmer.

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