AND THE TIRES ROLL OVER ITS NAME

Then

We are driving down a road. Or maybe up. We are driving on a road made perfectly straight, in a process of straightening by our involvement with it, through a landscape imperfectly curved, becoming increasingly curvaceous as we observe it. We are driving on a road composed of an infinitesimal quantity of perfectly spherical white hot dots which have become dented, fractured, blackened and tarred through time or tires or tired talks about tyrannies. We are driving as a unit with a front and a back that is all middle. We are moving as a single animal with multiple independent heads always eating while being eaten, numerous flailing feet stumbling through their stepping, eyes fixated only on seeing themselves seeing each other seeing fixated eyes, a body with no organs because they were shat out and buried back there beside that last waterfall in a flagrant attempt to displace the ravenous hungers of corporeal desire into the solid stone stovepipes of the belching earth. We are driving on this road -- here and now -- made of the same black rock as the land surrounding it -- there and over there -- and it's a miracle that the eye of the driver can differentiate between the stable surfaces of evenly laid impediments and the silty salted soils washing up on either side whispering their slow volcanic hymnals of beginnings and endings beyond human comprehension. We are driving so the wheels are revolving a guttural whurl, up through the polyester foam seats, up through our quivering primate tails padded with fatty polysaccharides, up into the insulated cranial dome to shake the granulated thought-forms into a slow simmer just steamy enough to make us forget our names and directions. We are driving and the wheels are turning and pulling the road underneath gripping the hot black rock perspiring molten amniotic fluids spinning faster and then slower the entire planet through the dense dark mass of the universe like the salted licorice morsel rolling over the tongue of the Icelandic nymph staring back from one car over. We are driving while looking out from within our heads loosely tied to outer bodies, out through eyes gazing eternally an eternity just outside the window, out onto a charred molasses blanket drinking up the light out of the sky, out into an encroaching wall of pure neutral gray moisture quickly approaching and then we are in it and all the color is digested in the gunmetal atmosphere and all the sounds absorb into the cotton swabs of the cloud outside which is now permeating in and for a minute there was no color and no sound and no time and the line delineating life from death was dissolved into a continuum no less clear though no more muddled as it had ever been, just more gray. We were driving through a mass of fog and could no longer see the midnight road or blood-ore dirt-scape or the salty licorice tongue licking itself, or the images of foam rubber ass forms hurdling through space or precision manufactured components reticulating a trajectory by way of the satellite kino-eye-in-the-sky, but for a minute could only feel the weight of the minute and see the fog and hear ourselves hearing.