Jonesing for Paradise

When things get hair-raising,

it means you’re about to break a bead
to bring about salvation-salivation

I had a job at a Phillips Sixty-Six station
when I was just nineteen.
Things got hair-raising

for me. Others too. I sprayed gasoline
all over one guy. He didn’t need
that shit, but he commended me unto salvation.

I had to learn how to change tires,
how to break the bond
between the rubber and the rim. It was hair-raising

as hell—my boss started calling me Barney,
because I reminded him of Don Knotts—
dog-slobber salivation

running down my chin—like the soapy flim
I slopped on the wheels to help break the bead.
Things got hair-raising!—
moving me ever closer to salivation-salvation.