CL Bledsoe

CL Bledsoe

BLACK MARKS ON STREETS OF GOLD

Jesus owes me a sportscar. Blood red, wood-grain dash, transmission hard as nails. Call the CDC: we got a contagious heart, here. The real money is in speeding tickets, but I’ve always envied mechanics, the coating of oil which allows the world to slide off, the defiant stance of tunnel vision. I never learned violin, but my parallel parking can make Jesus weep. He likes to ride shotgun. He’s gonna pay for kicking the bucket seats.