Brilliant burning
the hot bulb
the summer air
turning
insect song simmering
we swelter slow movement
dreaming of cooler months
of less humid soaked into
brickwork and tarmac
shimmering in the distance
the Power poles totemic
swaying with their dropping
lines
The myopic miles pulling
us in travel

Everyones lost in the dream
the radio turned low
nothing but the tires singing
their own song...the growl
of the engine and performance
exhaust

our silhouette shadow
races with us
traffic gushing past
oncoming a glitter
the parched distances
to the mountians
a golden sheen

fingers of hair caught
in the summer winds
the vent windows
geared open
feet up on the dash

Sandwhich cases full
of illicitness and hard
rolls of cash in pockets
threadbare

warm iron under the
cotton weave of the
ordinary sunstained
sedan

Poetry and potions
flashing chrome
and bad ideas
as the bruise of
a turgid summers
eve rises
thick and potent

and like a bullet
in a trance
we
rush
tailights
like mad tracers

...