Dashboard.

March of the stones throw
where the river opens wide
to caverns that lift man above life
up to sanctuaries in the sky:
heaven sent.
Does the bistro open late
to cater to ill-reputed youngsters?
Are the artisans the only informal ones
or does the populous wear suits?
Tourists that discard warm bottles
of trash that compacts
in semi-automatic pistols
cannot top the overcoming sensation
that permits the promiscuity whereabouts.
And lays the land over, and over,
(twice over) to often circling trees
encumbering men who grovel
in sensitive prostitutions.
Throw away your pack-saddle
and open the glove compartment;
warm leather gloves wrap hands
to pivot steering columns back and forth,
to and fro.
Up, up, up we come in that carried away game,
to the narrow peaks that saunter specifics
heights around the scenery spectacle.
Encroaching masses hold high
a child of earthly proportions.
Cannot wait for winter,
Cannot wait for spring
Cannot wait for summer;
Fall begins and all around me
are win, win, wins.