This poem is called "Miranda Writes."
Writes is spelt W-R-I-T-E-S. And it's from Miranda to--
well, the subtitle more or less explains it.
"Miranda writes postcards after she, disrespected and disowned
by old father, Prince whose sick mouth runs this show,
well called when we had the day of Prospero, steals a car
and flees south."
That's the subtitle.
"Imperial Highway, tarred and weathered,
tired, incredibly cold, wish you were there, love, Miranda.
Nodding off in the Emperor's New Cadillac,
the brakes are weak, the steering whack.
I'm trying to see things from below.
I love my new tax bracket.
The car's is in a spin and my belt buckle is on the equator.
See you later, love, your little Miranda.
I'm asleep on the heels of this fruited plane.
Ah, the wheels all of panamericana, oh, love,
your cinematic whiz kid, Miranda.
From south of the border this last vehicle
rotates fast in the wrong direction
as does the wax apple planet on its magnetic axle.
You know what I'm saying?
Love, Miranda.
God damn, I'm going nowhere faster than the eye can see.
I can see two shining seas one after the other to be
continued, et cetera.
Love, more of the same, the better, Miranda.
Caliban, you weak bastard.
I blame you for all freak accidents.
Why didn't you warn me about this storm,
the cigarette lighter to my nose?
I'm nearly warm in the Emperor's old bed clothes and Governor
of the state of emergency.
Tell the fucker the road froze.
And who do you love?
Miranda."