Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

Journal of the 12 Hour Powerball Trip

or:                A pretty girl
                    in her underwear

                    *          *          *          
C'est Mort, La Mort, C'est Mort
Nothing like a 3:15 rest
area sleep under the 15 spell
wondering about comrades in
more spacious places          today
was black from nerve cell
blowout a little
          Breakfast at Tiffany's
after 4 days of rain.
          James Merrill was
aristocratically ours          OK
he slummed it          or so
he thought w/his hidden
accent amongst the Greeks
but there's an immortalic breath
money can buy

He knew, he knew, no
matter how bad it got
it would all be there
home, food, ease
And so we make our lives
by what we love
And so we chase the
powerball.

What would i do if suddenly
money were no object?

But it is
          But it is
180 miles says so
A little torn map, plastic water
bottle, smart food, gas on the side.
promises in my pocket
          sleep at my shoulder
you can to it:  Dream

yes,     there.