Dig Down Deeper

Dig down deeper, plant yourself firmly, and blow

cling to anything that will make you feel

apart of this place.

The road is narrow, twisting under a canopy of green, quaint old houses

hide among the trees, get irritated, and leave

the sound of many ghosts. Catch the next bus to Wichita, a city that remains even truer to

its Midwest roots

twisting under a canopy, the body in moonlight, apart from all places. Leave if you must,

but know that this bus is a ghost bus, that drives like an onion, with its head in the

ground.

Near the Doby Bowl sign

mutts sit in good form

Come aboard the canopy’s warm

I love the Doobie Brothers. Sometimes when it gets really hot, I like to go on hitchhiking

tours. One time, this woman picked me up in a short bus full of speds

And when I told her I was heading for Tulsa she said “All right Mr. Bob Wills, hold onto

your Hapi Snaks.”

The bus rolled out like a coy nap, its shadow passing over the plain, over the mutts, over

the driverless hulks of quaint old houses, over the recording of irritated eagles,

“Sign old the chimes,” she warned. “See how long it shakes? See its dark routes? Get on

the busts, but don’t you dare get the hail outta here, brother;

It taint safe (for a slut).”