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By: JackbootWhimsy

The whine of every wheel sounded dead seventy-five towards freedom, being truly tiny thirty yards from the Forty few hours past midnight California just as close as the sun dropped behind the dry desert majesty, (summer on top, the months staked beneath her burnt like that truckseat was) hauling ass to Eden thru singed air to past Barstow sum of sixty-six greedily burning dusty unleaded and naked yearning,
Holy young nights left highwayside passed by speeding America slightly shivering beneath old-lemon-yellow streetlights, still oblivious to the aching lonely, awesome beauty , mother road rumbling through the arteries while bent headlights cross sentinel buttes marking expanses no words ever caught gasps of hymns slip past cracked windows the prayers due darkness
Right where the ash trees have lost their status, and bear old scars where a nation carved its former acquaintance with wide young eyes yet to be blinded on cold foreign shores Still shelter the ruins of Bill’s Texaco, rusted cans, coyotes and the offspring of desert dreams born with dust in their blood
(always ignore state lines renaming a land knows damn well who it is)
~
JackbootWhimsy