index

gosh sits. it comes together like sap. it ponders on itself. forever and a day it dances on that daydream
and time was you could sit on that there idea. now it is a theme restaurant. the same old theme every exit.
we are driving the highway north into the heart of this country like fence posts. we will drive and collect
lost pens. we will do magic with them. beatrice will say the last right thing she will ever say then,

"tragically we'll give humanity what it deserves."

you and i will rule the universe one exit at a time, baby. but the route is changing. we are turning left.
west before north. she sits catlike in the back. she gave a goodbye speech to her cats. they didn’t want to
listen, these cats, because these are action cats. get out of my face, they seemed to say, being action
cats and not cats of leisure. lesser men would have brought those cats north but i saw them for what they
were with places to be that count field mice or yard rats, what have you.

"turning left is the same damn turn everyone like you makes."

it is the way to drive. it is the way the indianapolis 500 is won.

"it’s the way it’s lost too, to sound like you, and the west has already been driven on and is breaking off
into the pacific."

no it is not. are you suddenly a parrot? do not let it fool you. the west is tilting east.

"drive my car north."

yea though i wonk through mean i will tear no notice from you. this is no way to sluice forward. we must
outdrive the retired on this highway. look at them. they have no internet connection. i cannot save them.

"you know what you sound like?"

what?

"something like this: traveling down the sense making world events news spews articulate kingdom give
me one for my hoarse voice. sneak lightly. come sit a spell. break the spell moon snive noon drive and all
his henchmen are for nothing these days and ain't that a game. sure. and you can play this game? i can
but i am not very good at the 'have a seat here, pedro, and let us see how far we can go.
canwecanwegogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogo? jes. there are no horses on drain street and don't
you worry about it, mr. drive. i just want to rest a spell. sure and don't you know that whatever it is that's
gonna come is gonna be what comes and that will be be be be be be ber ber egregfregfdwwfljd ewlrjel f
lfjls las jsalsdal fajds sadlflk?"

are you saying i speak nonsense? are you thinking that you are the only device to ever to get so uppity? i
think not, bitch. at the drop of a hat i can strangle and dump you right here, where and whenever i want.
do not look on me in shock. i have only killed two out of a hundred and three. i will not kill you without
good reason and one that would fill at least three pages when i write about this later.

"then you think i’ll just sit and take your abuse?"

you just keep asking the questions. yeah?

"no".

actual live things like curly dogs and whiskers. pa, bring the ocean. close out sale tonight. junk. sell. it's a
mystery crunk. automatic crazy and that's the ways it is. more ways than a truck full of gomez. sure you
can fill out a contest entry form but can you see the horizon? it leans left and left you will go but first you
have to drop this bitch.

"what are you doing?"

i have a method and you are increasingly on my nerves. the barbarians are back. we left with nothing but
the possessions of literature that we know is there but have never read, and sure it does not matter, so
the fuss is all topical to thine own migrations.

"why are you so obsessed with theme setting?"

what? i am trying to drive us somewhere and i intend to get there even if you have to die. you understand
me? you are here for a purpose and once your purpose is done it is left for me to decide to dismember
you or not. and i am telling you right now that we have to turn left

then it is here that i saw her.

"damn you, chi chi” beatrice overdramatizes. “i hate you for fucking ever, you lying queer. you've never
saved anything have you?"

we are not on the internet. that is where i save people and any damn way it is here that i see her and you
are being left, beatrice. how long did you think it could really last? it is here

disporting on the mead and to my empty eyes lastingly imposed she walks on the ground unencumbered.
slender she steps in the springing grass. cool to the touch her white toes are dry. if feet could giggle
these surely would and walk upon the heads of men. sweet fuck almighty, she invites me to shamrock
shy. why am i. hi. and do not drink my radiator water.

"okay", she giggles.

we sparkle like foreigners and buckle up so we don't float away. there's madness out west now, again,
roads lain and mirages still. we speed away leaving beatrice and her bags scuttling. she is already three
big states behind us. we will live out of hubcaps, me and my final womb. i will let her save me. beatrice
claws her way back to cats who barely recognize her as me and the goddess go west.

swan delviking

you can look out there and still find highway and still not just roll up into a ball and die settling onto your
dent somewhere near dallas where all sad baseballs come unstrung. the road is when you are on it. it is
still out west that you can glimpse this tangibly, the fading horizon on all sides. you can be only yourself
when you are parched in the desert but thank horsepower. i have some now. we have swapped the buick
for a corvette.

the collection of pens from public places continues. it's been a bounty harvest. most of the pens have
things written on them. sometimes they say funny things. "i stole this pen from barkloo construction".
they're of very low quality, mostly, but we have held these pens up with glory above our heads and
howled in tremolo. we have coup sticked countless gas-marts. we have arrived in arizona top down and
one hundred fifteen miles per hour. we are not free but we can believe in freedom. issues arise and fall
hundreds of yards behind us with the force of wind and crumpled cigarette packs.

we have pens to burn and issues are formless abbreviations of car exhaust. frolicking skips of love issue
in their prime. her hair flows lightly brushing me as i roll in it. her face beaming and close to mine at all
angles. her breasts nudge softly and her young hands balm. the love floats us across malt shops and
desert road stops. they go by the exotic names of mcdonald’s or denny’s. and the proprietors laugh or
chuckle in love with us. we share stories of conquer and heartbreak. the world is a lover and we have
love to churn.

that first night together blooms out of the most significant street light as we gazed up into the giant
lumbering trucks all around us. we rode the growing vine into the second floor of the best western motel.
the little pictures of cows on the wall shook to our laughter as if themselves chuckling. within minutes
our neighbors were laughing too. our orgasms were near breathless silent giggling to burst out laughing.
we went twice for more mini wines at the corner sav-mart and that night went deliciously on until finally
when the sun was rising we bumped noses and fell asleep.

coming awake together we see each other’s eyes and our faces crinkle at their edges and two corners of
the mouth come into view. her furrowed forehead gets me laughing again, our arms wrapped tightly
around.

it was only a mead that i found you on because you were on it, and not a refuse filled dog walk. i was sure
i knew your name or something about you or you knew everything about me. but i do not pressure you.
confess to me your ethereal and i will forgive all your confusions. i do not expect you to define me, just
the experience. put your feet up on the dash. let me admire your knees. pull your skirt up some more. say
that again.

botched missionary positions unfulfilled

"i-am-mi-ma."

you look near virginal but you may just be an experiment designed to avoid my failures.

"i mean, i am a nima."

i am not sure i follow you and i thought i was the author. but what i gather you are saying is i can throw off
the device and still not be able to toss out the motivation. that is the necessary thread i follow. that is the
star to which i hitch my wagon. you represent more than the use of your constructs. you are more than
some bitch i can bury in the desert. you can be buried but i must bury you forever. the brave thing to do
is to face you and fuck the outcome. fuck the outcome like i fucked you that night i found you on the
mead, with focused abandon. can you never be simple?

"i am sorry"

you so perfectly say. how can one blame one's own motivation and expect it to suffer penitence? well, it
happens every day but you are here personified in our flashy new corvette while i overlook the wings on
your ankles. i will never fill you with my failures or deflate you with my disappointments. i will kiss the wind
of life into you. i will mercurially transact the balance of my fluids. my thermometer will remain under your
tongue and i will adjust myself to your temperatures.

"you silly boy."

i like the way you say that. i will save you too, if i can save nimas, and i think i must or i have no purpose.
could that be liberating? i do not know. i do not wish to be someone else's creation. i will swim this
corvette through the desert and you will sit in my passenger's seat, swan delviking, and we swim because
we take our elements in the long term. i consciously self myself into believe this. i suppose you do too
because you hang your knees over the door and coming into arizona we are reminded once again there
are others in those cars nicking past us and they have stories less like this and more like the impact of
serious needs. but they should speak for themselves. do not expect reciprocity. never shift your full
weight to the ground. when in tucson wear a cap that hides your antennae...©