Oh, with the second-hand screwdriver of the windshield wiper I could loosen my boulevard, release one gas of metal coffee beans that stare me down as they go down my boulevard, toward little smiles on my fingernails and toenails which go, thinking how to go, growing up, blurry, mocoso, wiped out windows staring nose hairs of the universe on my roof, tippy tapping ten thousand nights into one, great one in which I am such a small fart, my shoelaces all untied parts of dessicated curly lizards—