My ad? Here?

In this sentence, I am the I who
switches lanes without signaling intentions.
They told us cross your legs they told us
shave them first, hold that stretch for
30 seconds. We coast.
Billboards sell themselves.

I fill both balloons with my own air.
Hell, I don't even care if
you are watching. All the less
pop and pieces to clean. I lied.
Look at me. For you I pink and glitter,
pull ribbons into honeysuckle curls.

MegaPlexXXX up the highway on the left.
Tall privacy fences protect the innocent who come
buy what we tell them to buy. Just not here,
or like that for God's sake, or with your wives'
credit cards. I am the foot that
quivers under the stall. I am the
falling belt, I am the marble truth,
the fix that never sticks, the penance
that never ends.

We did not mean to confuse you, love.
You know who you are. But who
is this other "you" character? Is it you
or is it just another chain-smoke leaning
look-alike?

We rarely whistle any more nor wear
hats without occasion. We are radial splash.
We are run-off they swerve to avoid,
the same to which we return,
spraying magic over the hood and again. Look!
Someone dropped a penny in. Was it you?