rob m. goozee...
THE INTERSTATE. My mind plays echo chamber to a thousand drifting thoughts. Patience burns like the heat of dashboard vinyl. I check my six for pigs with a nervous twitch of my eye. Rear mirror. Looking back. You see space and fading lines on a sour landscape.
I see them.
In these running hills, a flesh-tone ocean of taupe and sand, rides the wind of penance. Pyrite salvation. It refreshes, but cannot save. It is not enough when heat rules this land. How time stops for torture, trips and trials!
When this trip began I was handed a half note written by a woman unnamed.
'My tortured existence burns in the flames of hate. There was a time long ago when I once believed that life could be so nice. But paradise...never found me. Well it hung me up to dry and all I own is bitter pain. Pain for the senses for this man of a darker heart. So my soul is set aflame never to know the love of another. With nothing left to gain. Tears in streams of flame. To a man whose life will forever be soul torn and twisted. Untamed."
Five years past since I met her. A virgin. No more. I found her cradled in an ivory dress, and I left her smoking a cigarette. Innocence buried in between.
Trial requires me to enter the battlefield. How I'm asked to kill! This world would have it and to survive I must do it though He's my brother in another land and life. As Darwin smiles, I kill him today to get paid.
So be it.
Westward. Torture no doubt awaits in the City of Angels. Reclamation bears a price. They said no king ever claimed his kingdom without first scaling the walls.
In this fish-tank philosophy, I was the one who flipped out. Floundering and choking on the Dacron nylon stain resistant floor, I walked away and lived for the first time.
Time is running, but my wheels are spinning faster. The interstate becomes irrelevant, it more or less hints what is yet to be seen. The Engine roars like a stock car with a tune-up from Hell. The pigs and their badges haven't got a chance. Reborn a desert Antichrist, all laws are a mirage.
In my voice cries complaint, I lock and load my last bullet in dueling armistice. In this world future squeezed by temporary karma, my new world has no bounds.
Delay delayed. I am out of time. For now...
... is the weekly arts column that aimed to execute modern literature. This is the final entry. ((If you want ... back, too fucking bad. it's gone.)) In lieu of the writer's graduation send flowers to the new Arts Editor Roger Wood or call 621-3106. Read Next Article