Theme music at seventy,

odometer fifteen over that.

My, self, lost,

in moments of whipped landmarks


by the possession of an interstate

with gas

hammered to the coast.


Thoughts are lost,

ideas are found

and a windowless howl

removes all cares around

an eight cylinder horror show.

Roar and grip,

shoulders settle and hide.



breathe fresh fumes,



press down,

to race the sky’s cotton blue.


Scenery swept

acceleration blurs

hallucinations of time

against a northern coastline.

White breaks cutting sand

I scent the sea,

both salt and weed

cold intoxication increased.


Mountains ahead,

wind blows me high

and away

stomp shoe

in a coastal blast

to stations unknown,

relax on exotic lands

dreamt of

on warm nights in sand

beside a wave





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