The corridor East from Los Angeles
is beset by fallen Mech Warriors
and decapitated palm trees.
Errors, thick as unnatural damp,
dissipate into desert and we move
from one desolation to another.
Amidst relief are golden
brontosaurs, but brontosaurs are not real anymore,
demoted by way of Pluto. All facts
from my childhood are suspect.
I remember how to spell desert because it has one less S,
and my teacher told me,
It’s not something you want more of.
We drive in circuitous routes,
nothing but curiosity and semis accompanying heat.
I’ve been using sesame oil for sunscreen
and now my arms are the color of Mars.