poem: quaint missionaries

(The first lines were straight from the Google ad popping up on my YouTube video: yes, it stopped at car . . . )

Become a personal trainer
Get ISSA certified,
turn your passion into your
Car, a velvet backseat
kind of passion
foggy windows
Condensation wracks
the van gogh in your fingers
flesh for a sainted
bloom that wiles
your wily fishy soul. I trained
in the withering light,
cold air biting
the night's dreams you
were there & there was
an afterlife of missing persons.
I trained for this
in the past lives
of gravel roads, lucindas
gaining ground as you
sow what reaps blessings
from the drunken boats:
sift your mercies
for the turtle bays,
a dying grace fells
the womb in you,
tinsel-gathering
through all the seasons of you
down the quiet streets
down the carnivaled alleys
down the avenue of trees
was the first in them all,
was personal training the vast
crowds at your disposal
was fashioning bliss
the least bit on
your yeasty mind?
I grant you
the quaint missionaries
in their murmuring
toss-offs:
theirs are missiles
firing through the mist,
& I, well,
I,
I, can no farther
round than
this smattering of
this.