Bones
At the foot of the mountains
Like the spine of a rotting hump backed whale
Jockeying for position
The air a riot of radio waves, horns honking and people shouting
We sip flavored coffee from 55 gallon drums in 4/4
These are the rituals that sustain the great beast as it rises from its slumber
It takes a long time to get the line moving, and even longer to stop
Today it shrieks and drops to all fours
Toothy forced smiles lit amber and ruby glow
Eyes shining ahead through impenetrable terrain
Deep in a Mayan sweat
I cut across Louisianna like the right hand of god
I was thirsty
Yet — there is a kind of beauty here I think
It reveals itself in the half waking state between past and present tension
white knuckles cracking on the wheel at the end of the world
And the beginning of the next one grins and raises a flag
Letting me pass on through the outer gates just as the great beast dips its massive head
And disappears beneath the waves of cream
Rolling in from somewhere beyond this horizon
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