While you may not normally stick

your hand into dark, suspiciously

mouth-like recesses, you say you’ve seen

Temple of Doom and you know better,

this is just part of owning your own vehicle,

don’t be a fucking coward. Reach in there

half-blindly, remove the stick insect sentries,

and now there should be a sort of fang-like

mechanism, it’s basically a timing thing, think

miniature golf, think Edgar Allen Poe, but

mostly don’t think about the doctor’s

rectifying needle going in and out of your

flesh when you screw up. Don’t screw up,

be an adult, for Christ’s sake. At this point,

there’s a few ridged plastic things, and you

must answer me these riddles three,

1: what’s black  and white and red all over

2: what’s black and white and read all over

3: why DO fools fall in love, your ex-wife

probably knows the answer, but remember,

if you were a little handier I bet she wouldn’t

have left in the first place. Are you even

listening to me anymore, there’s this, uh,

little string of spittle creeping down toward

your quavering Adam’s apple, paralyzed silk,

and come on, man. There’s still the charged

wires, and this weird recess of pointed toothpicks

attached to a spring-loaded base, and like

26-ish more steps full of rust and tetanus,

so would you just sack up a little here,

the sun’s going down, and you and I

both know this will be even harder in the dark,

 when your pupils will open wide enough

for the Hyundai Elantra to drive through,

racing down your optic nerve at reasonable

consumer vehicle speeds, single headlight

investigating all of your left brain’s secrets,

framing them in a stare of halogenic judgment.

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