Jo Jo’s Fireworks–Next Exit
Past the turpentine camps, brilliant green lamps held by woozy militia men, the car with a nose of its own, with headlight-eyes, sniffs through the mountain fog, heart palpitating, belly hungry for gasoline pancakes. Ghettos rave in their sleep, butchering alto solos, harvesting white snakes. The car, evermore threadbare, feels lost on Chevrolet Avenue, a…