A long straight trip down a winding, circular
road to where I started from, I move in ever
decreasing circles, smooth right turn after
smooth right turn, an eight hour trip in my
desiccated mind through the thoughtscape of
flashing neon signposts and befeathered and
besequined showgirls kicklining down a
deserted highway, the heat draining the
moisture from my unprotected skin, a
right arm salt flat, arm hairs cracking and
breaking and plummeting out of sight, the
hot stale air rife with limestone flavor
caking my swollen tongue. Four hours now,
the rattle and shake of an economy car on a
luxury road lulls me into an unsuspecting
stupor while a nervous teenager natters on about
Jesus and how her sister is going to
hell for kissing her boyfriend. My eyes
stick in their eyesockets as my hair
creaks, plastered to my red shrieking
forehead, so I turn to look at her execute
another right turn, six hours now
driving in circles. An unfettered
imagining escapes the desert
prison of my dehydrated brain, and
oozes to the surface, daring me to
seize the wheel and aim the exhausted
vehicle over the curb through the glinting
barrier into the dusty rock strewn
expanse the map lies to call a
river. I could have been by the bay by now, the
faintest hint of grapes drifting south on the
wind from luxurious hills. I could have been in
Spanish language lands surrounded by prim
gingham prostitutes, shadow wearing pimps, and
revelrous sailors seeking to stain their
white uniforms with glorious adventure.
Eight hours now and I have ended where I
begun, the protesting display wheezing
horrified red photons to report one hundred
sixteen, and not a drop of shade to be drunk.
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