The Highway

The wind sweeps across the brigand desert and rams us, body and all, sections slicing through our plastic hair, whose greasy arms dramatically flail and flake. Buffeting in the silent night, across illusory lanes, a savage whisper in silky silence, a solemn wail, an ashen gasp, a muffled gurgle.

As the roadside flies, the black tongue lolls, a carpet winding and whirling, gyrating its frazzled dance toward our dreamy destination, whose noise and lights hum specifically for us in this lamplit purgatory. Spirits playfully prance at the edge of vision, their laughing lanterns archedly pouting, pettish from lack of love.

The engine chuckles in its bed, yoked to the frame, guffawing in rotation, gleaming gears grinding, whose intemperate teeth crunch, shimmering heat, fluid swirling. Casting away misuse and the clamors of age, it gains its wind and races from sight.