We threw our potatoes
out in Carbondale, didn't
taste like the leg buildings
we thought we had ordered.
Bury my disorder in a flatbed
truck and mail my potatohead
clumps from Portland to Malaga
with some Mediterranean
padded pilot gear,
we steer ourselves away
from Kalamazoo cider smears,
far beyond Mauston's
farmer's market,
and we take to endless dunes,
a potato refuge target we hope,
we assume. Novato, Novato,
isn't this all melting?
Dear Wheeling,
what do we call French fries
in liquid form? Would you still eat
us on any part
of our planet's map?
Then patiently wait outside
for the potatohead storm.
More Instrumentals