there is no life here in the Mojave.
save for the cacti which I pity,
stuck to the ground and always kept dehydrating in this damn sun
but kept from death by a cruel god
who gives them the salty sweat off his brow that he worked up
beating the shit out of this place.
even the lizards are trying to get the fuck out,
never having more than two feet on the ground at a time
to keep from singeing.
me, I picked up a pack of smokes from the last shithole of a gas station 100 miles from here.
I lost track as my eyes feverishly shift between the gas and the road,
half a tank and you have to turn back.
I begin rationalizing this to myself and light up a camel,
shit brand, but appropriate.
the only way to feel any sort of relief in this place is to burn yourself.
I take deep breaths and feel the nicotine in my lungs
as they grow hotter and drier than the desert I’m on.
they gasp for air, and when they feel it, it’s cool for the first time.
any spot is a good spot.
the winds will take care of any way back my memory could ever give even if they beat me for it.
there’s a dead body in the trunk.
I sing that thought like the song 99 bottles of beer on the wall.
before I’ve noticed it, I’ve gone too far. a quarter tank left.
I tap the gauge to make sure the motherfucker isn’t lying to me.
I light up another smoke.
fuck it I say to myself, i was dead before i left anyway