by Son of Suburbia
Mud tufts on the overpass tinge black,
Not withstanding the oily rainbowed shine of progress.
“Crank the A.C., the heater, the noise.”
(terminate engine droning boring exhaust)
We’ve got plenty miles left and
We don’t yet know where.
That mechanical lull of windshield wipers for a roadtrippin rainstorm.
It’s too calm to notice roadkill under rubber haste.
We could hydroplane but the heater’s too soft right now.
So speed up already.
So much time to massacre through speed.
We the unleaded
We the reminiscent do solemnly swear under
[god, the president]
in the name of
ALL ThaT iS oNS alE
To
