I)
I married a woman named Baberaham Lincoln and we grew
     the same mustache,

moved to Ann Arbor in a Wooden Station Wagon
     listening to Funk Rock and Joe Piscopo
Spoken Word.

Spinning wheels, ’round and ’round, cross
coordinated dusky streets, literally littered
     with skateboarding gas station attendants—
those who speak naked testimonials

into inexpensive camcorders; their
Eyeballs in debt,
     praying on Sundays for adjustable rate public relations.

Reality is roadtripping
     through two-thousand and eight American televisions
     affixed via Satellite to brawny Beijing,

Broadcasting from atop the astroturf
     at the Center of Sport.

II)
We’ve spent an extra night or two by the strip mall
     hotel swimming pool,

under the shadow of Tiger Woods barefoot
     on the Euphrates, orchestrating
a public Telethon between Rival Teams
within our own delegation.

J. Harvie Wilkinson and Sonia Sotomayor,
     Babe and Me, in the pool with knee-high holy socks,
     racing via Segway from Lake Itasca to Ancient Carchemish,

Grabbing roadside water bottles
     from an elderly Wall*Mart greeter
insisting “God Hates FAQs,”

propping 8 Shepards under XMas lighting
     behind a formerly segregated lunch counter;
a Phelpsian Feat.

One World, One Dream,
until the River ran dry and we found our missing boots
     and then beat each other up.

III)
My nose is broken, my diamond teeth are bloody
     and I can no longer afford my Asthma medication.

But there’s more in the River,
     water once again in the River…

Old Babe and the Young Hawaiian, racing via foot once more,
     naked and wheezing under proud flown American flags,
          eating Apple Pies and Doughnut Sticks, knowing

River HOPE is a spring internal,
spilling over the top of the Keban Damn,
     descending until the leveed mouth of New Orleans,
wiping any anti-freeze from the shiny pavement,

)

Clean whistles by the twentieth Sunrise of January.