”The pink car is in my head.
It rolls calmly and calmly.
Across the carpet in 1957 and in my head.
Why is it pink? The question does not come up.
The pink car is just what it is and glad so.
Pink is its own color, of its own, being that.
(Pink not anything about sex
and not anything about femininity
and not anything about embarrassment or socialism
those meanings are from outside
whereas this pink car is not coming from an idea
it is a way of being itself.)
The pink car rolls slowly along a pale green lane
till it needs to go fast then it goes very fast
while still quiet. It knows what it is,
it is the pink car!
Along the lanes to be what it is
it goes around hard corners and far across a wide plain
and back again whenever it wants.
Other cars can be all those other colors
the pink car doesn't care they can be loud and big
the pink car doesn't care that is why it can roll
so quietly and go slow until it goes fast for awhile.
Other cars might honk their horns to seem big --
the pink car doesn't honk and doesn't worry
it just goes along the pale green lane
and around a sharp corner and down another lane
to stop in a special spot. Why is the spot special?
Because the pink car stopped there!
Stopping quiet but ready to go, to go
and be the pink car which is all it wants.
And when will I, when can
I ever be the man impied by this sedan?”