Jedediah Smith

It’s you baby.
I want you dropping the red bandanna between
	our headlights pointed toward the cliff beyond
I want the lacy edge of your push-up bra pushing
	up beyond your low-cut top to be
	the last sight I see before I pedal to the metal
	this hot rod toward oblivion 
But you’re no Natalie Wood sweetheart, you’re bad
I’ve seen you in 1000 movie matinees, an afternoon cinema slut
	the gangster’s moll
	the hoodlum’s squeeze
	the vampire’s wife
	the creature feature monsterbait
	number one slit in the lesbian biker pack
	the razor chick in the all-girl gang
	the tough broad sidekick
	not the heartthrob but the handjob 
	not the heroine but the hard-on
with lips cherry red
	kohl-ringed eyes
	stiletto heels snapping castanets
	hunks of skin under your nails
	cleavage heaving beneath reptile hands	
	Tura Satana’s legs, Kitten Natividad’s jugs,
	Bettie Page’s ass, Ingrid Pitt’s fangs
	honey skin thigh jiggling giggling 
	sweet hole sticky lipped
You’re my personal Jayne Mansfield, head intact
My puberty’s centerfold dream realized in panting flesh
and I’m still in the third row, ordering
	another jumbo popcorn, feet
	propped up on the next row, waiting 
	for a flash of pink that never quite 
	makes it past the cut of the American 
	International Pictures’ censor
I’ve seen you play the sweater girl opposite Steve McQueen,
	saving the world from aliens while
	making out in the back seat, civilization 
	hanging by one bra strap
Lounge back in white trash splendor, lit up in the glare
	of a stag film flickering on the fake 
	paneling of a basement rec-room.
Pull the switchblade from your beehive baby, the one 
	you stuck in Jeff Hunter’s back when he 
	fell for you like a schoolboy but you were 
	a dropout tired of a diet of white bread
You’re not a nice girl and I never wanted you to be
Smear the popcorn butter Bettie, 
	right across that swell looking mug
Swing your Fender Telecaster as you and Wanda Jackson
	pound the shit out of Jailgirl Rock
I’ve heard your pumps clicking down a wet brick midnight 
	alley the hitman on your trail
I’ve seen you punch out the sorority girl at the sock hop
	then get belly shot by the friendly cop
	O’Malley in the end
keep riding that Harley mama, till the blood runs down 
	your legs
keep tossing that dynamite
	blowing the side panels off Continentals
keep tossing back bourbons neat while 
	the college boys cough on crème de mint
keep your nails long and jungle red clawing 
	your way from the cheap sharecropper’s cabin 
	to the hard grit sidewalks of LA
keep shaking that wild bikini, squirming in the painted-on 
	leather, and shimmering
	the cheap porno tinsel on the stripper runway 
keep dancing on the edge of that cliff 
	as I race my souped-up Chevy
	out into the dread air
keep loading the passion, both barrels blasting, sending 
	me over the cliff for one last look of that lacy bra,
	one last look on the screen. 
But you’re real baby,
	no mere 2D projection of our desire on the silver screen
	of the mind.
You’re all 3D – 
no glasses necessary.