Here I am again, exhausted, nauseous and a bit lost. Looking out through a cracked windshield and the gore splatter of a hundred kamikaze bugs, wondering what's out there beyond those fields. Waiting. The Clash is on the radio with their punk rock lullaby. They're playing my song:
Somebody got murdered
His name cannot be found
A small stain on the pavement
They'll scrub it off the ground
Drove through a sandstorm earlier, for a few miles I was trapped inside a grainy violent world. Sandpaper kisses all over my truck. Howling torment in my ears as I wondered how easy it would be to glide across the divide onto the opposite road. Would my face look good covered in glass? Probably not. It'll look a lot better covered in red lipstick and the bittersweet cult love of idolatry.
I'm stuck in the middle again for reasons that are finally making sense. Still, I curse the day my old man died. It's getting better though. I swallow that obvious lie because without it I can't focus on what's waiting for me on the other side of the blood red rainbow.
There they are. Dragging a cloud of dust behind them as they bump and jerk through these backward roads. I open the glove compartment and smoothly finger my loaded angel. Are we going to tango today - she whispers. I'm reminded of a William Wallace quote: 'They fought like warrior poets, they fought like Scotsmen, and won their freedom'.
I'm not a poet, nor scottish, but I sure as hell want that freedom and it's about time I won.