Cadillac Moon

Crashing again—Basquiat sends fenders & letters headlong into each other the future. Fusion. AAAAAAAAAAA. Big Bang. The Big Apple, Atom's behind him— no sirens in sight. His career of careening since—at six— playing stickball a car stole his spleen. Blind sided. Move along folks—nothing to see here. Driven, does two Caddys colliding, biting the dust he's begun to snort. Hit & run. Red Cross—the pill-pale ambulance, inside out, he hitched to the hospital. Joy ride. Hot wired. O the rush before the wreck— each Cadillac, a Titanic, an iceberg that's met its match—cabin flooded like an engine, drawing even dark Shine from below deck. FLATS FIX. Chop shop. Body work while-u-wait.In situ the spleen or lien, anterior view—