and maybe it's because you feel your life is running away without you.

wallow in your shoes

(damp from your trek in the creek, your socks squish between your toes)

were you ever driving the car?

or was the steering wheel always dragging your hands along with it

like it's doing now?

you could eat cotton candy while you drive,

shoving fistfuls of melting sugar in your mouth

while the trees go by

getting greyer and smaller

until you realize it's because you're bigger now than you used to be;

does that mean you're colourful?

your chin is sticky with the remembered candy you didn't eat

and your eyes have strayed from the road

you thought you weren't the one steering

but you crashed into the crumbling side of the overpass

and blamed yourself

if you had turned right

what's the last thing you remember?

the way your knuckles looked, clenched around the wheel?

the way your teeth felt electric?

the way the wall loomed? you noticed every crack

perhaps for the first time

you make a left turn, by the overpass

hauling the battered car back onto the dirt road

socks squelching between your toes, foot on the gas

remembered cotton candy staining your teeth

and on you drive

wondering if the steering wheel would keep on turning if you let go

outside, the endless stepp, the goulash ahead, i know what's coming and it involves a spoon and sourdough.

i will not take a protein shake, not before the challenge.

i occupy my mind, on the tracks ahead, they run in paralel, despite the train having many turns.

someday the lines will meet.

Omar khayyam would probably have something to say about it.

"sit around the stew friends,

and let the bird fly, and seeth

and shun the dreaded crusts,

the wine pours, until its ebbs"

but his astronomy knew not of railways,

and he kept a rusty astrolabe in his pocket. and an energy bar.

the lines will meet, someday,

as long thin legs do,

they must,

and the train, will meet then,

the illustrious Joe Pecci,

who will drive the train,

through the focal point.

i hear the wistle blowing,

and think of the milstones we passed,

and the mill stones,

and the rolling stones,

cause that's the problem,

with object permanance,

you keep your eye on the ball,

then you get hit with a bat,

caused you pissed off,

the wrong organizers.

object permanance,

being the only proof ,

that monster truck rallies,

are a big lie.

Under a stormy sky, it could've been any time of day. The road was covered in a misty sheen, and the radio was humming softly in the background. There wasn't much on the news today, just static-ridden discussions of new flavors of potato chips by the samovar, and reports of the celebrated return of Joe Pecci and his bat.

Many years ago, Jeromathy was a passionate scientist-to-be whose spirit yielded to no one. He had great goals, such as demistifying the life cycle of even-toed ungulates, and being the first to go egg hunting on planet Zordvorf. "Rules are mere leftovers in the age of discovery. In truth, our world is just a big floating disc of wet clay and acceptable wrongdoing," he would often muse to those who cared to listen. Even then, people told him he was going too far.

It's human nature to push away the milestone that pulls you down, but Jeromathy's hit him square in the face and nearly suffocated him. If Jeromathy had been wise and read the critically acclaimed Things You Shouldn't Say to Monster Truck Rally Organizers, he may have avoided that fateful night completely. Instead, the free-minded scientist attempted to utilize a local monster truck rally as a means of voicing one of his most coveted beliefs. Once the announcer took a break, it wasn't hard for Jeromathy to sneak up to the microphone. "The earth is flat I tell you", shouted Jeromathy, "It is simply impossible for it to be spherical. Take your monster truck tires for example. They are described as 'round', yet they are also flat. The earth is no different. Perhaps the studies of a flat earth will only ever be truths a doublethinker holds onto. Please, help me make them more."

Anger fueled boo's echoed from the crowd. Jeromathy had made his point, but as a spherical rock bounced off of his forehead, it appeared that such a point had not been well-received. Before he could speak again, strong hands gripped his wrists, and he knew that his ruse had ended. "You'll never bring me down. I'll jump off the side of the earth if I have to", Jeromathy shouted as he struggled to free himself. A fist collided with his cheek, and that was the last he remembered when he woke up the next morning, branded as the subject of ridicule.

For years, Jeromathy let that awful night devour him. During the day, it weighed him down like wet cement, and at night haunted his dreams. He'd been worn down to a pitiful stump of a man, but that was about to change, because finally Jeromathy realized that he'd been the subject of ridicule long before the monster truck rally. He'd always been the one to avoid at parties, and the one that made mothers pull their children closer in public. Finally, Jeromathy felt free again. He sped a bit faster in his old sedan as his instructions echoed in his mind. "You go five more exits than usual, and make a left turn by the overpass. Then you wait."

The dimly lit overpass offered shelter from the lashing sheets of rain, but it offered no solace for his anxious mind. As instructed, he turned his car off and got out to wait. Already on edge, he nearly jumped as a train screeched and rumbled overhead, overtaking the rain and the trickle of its runoff. Several lifetimes ago, Jeromathy loved trains. He was fascinated by their mechanics, as well as their versatility, and it was one of his dreams to ride a train to the side of the earth. In his younger years, one of Jeromathy's favorite activities was to buy a few protein shakes, and then drink them on the train to the Goulash. Not once did he have company, but he never wanted any. At that point of his life, the delicious taste to the protein shakes, the hum of the train, and the beauty of the Goulash countryside were all he needed for his paradise.

After what could've been seconds or hours later, a hooded figure emerged from the cold, rainy curtain beyond the overpass. "Hello Jeromathy", said the dark figure. The air was suddenly colder as the greeting echoed off of the concrete columns holding up the overpass. Somehow, the black hood and robe were completely dry, but just as Jeromathy was about to address this, the figure spoke again, this time asking a question.

"What am I really thinking, when I'm thinking about object permanence?"

Jeromathy did not answer immediately. He took his time to consider what the figure was asking him, and then the answer came. He knew it had to be the right one.

"The pocket contents of Omar Khayyam of course", answered Jeromathy.

"Ah, so truly close", echoed the mystery figure,"I can see your thoughts as they swim and drown. If only you stayed true to your mind's initial response. That, my friend, would've been correct."

Jeromathy silently cursed himself. How could he have known that answering with 'the pocket contents of Yusef Lateef' would have brought him victory. Omar Khayyam's pocket contents just made so much more sense. Knowing he had failed, Jeromathy prepared to run. He made for his car but the rusty sedan had vanished. Now sprinting, he made for the rainy edge of the overpass. The hooded figure snickered behind him. He kept running, but he was no closer to the outside.

Jeromathy knew he was doomed. He was trapped inside of the very phenomenon that terrified every flat-earther. Too bad he'd never be able to show the world. Two dimensional sinkholes were a key component to proving that the earth was flat, but none could prove that they were real. A two dimensional sinkhole could only be created if temperature, air pressure, sound frequency, and light all were at a precise point where they could fuse and create a temporary manifestation of "true flatness." Not much else was known about them, as they were nearly impossible to track and even harder to survive.

Jeromathy had accepted his fate. He prepared to be shredded and swallowed atom by atom until his existence was erased completely. In the end, at least he knew that he was right. That would have to be enough. "Soon I'll be back with my protein shakes on the train to the goulash", Jeromathy whispered.

"...alternatively, if you are driven by a different sort of fire. just pick obe..."

--batmaninwuhan

So, yes, I pick obe. It was a choice offered, by you, disguised without a cardinal number, and I cannot resist. You are so correct, sir: first, you should always use cardinals.

More succulent than pearly ovules, obes are as discreet as they are sweet. I have several in my mouth as I speak, articulately, because they augment fricatives, only so slide out unannounced and unexpected; they throttle plosives and then marry the two to join their affricates in ambient affirmation. Simply sibilant, yet strenuously strident.

Without the humble, understated obe, we would all be pantomiming, and we all know how bad that sounds. Religions would fall as the cacophony rose to obsolescence. It would be glorious, but insignificant in the grand scheme of tings. Can I get an "Omen!"?

you make a left turn, by the overpass

and I know the directions better than the back of my hand

I know the potholes, the patched cracks, the tire that sits outside the exit on the way to your grandmother's house, the bright flowers laid at the worn, wooden cross for the bike accident twelve years ago

yet you make a left turn, by the overpass

you make a left turn by the dead grass, by the willow tree, by the rubber streaks scorched into the pavement, by the cracked glass bottle that someone threw out a window

you make a left turn, by the overpass

and I know the directions better than the back of my hand

and you weren't supposed to turn but you take the left anyway, choosing the long way, the lost way, the get off this highway, towards the corner of 43rd and Bell street, towards the fields with corn that stands knee-high, the dirt roads we ran as children, where flowers grow and bees will sting

you make a left turn, by the overpass

a left turn towards memories

I made a left turn by the overpass. There a beat up Honda Civic sat steaming with the hood open, so I stopped to help. Then I saw the girl: tall with ripped jeans and a dirty t-shirt. I shouted out the window if she needed help, and she said yes. As she removed the license plate from the Honda, she said, “I need a ride.”

“Sure, do you need a tow truck?” I said.

“No,” she said, “This car’s toast, I just need a ride.” I made room on the front seat of the Mustang and she threw her bag in the back.

“I’m Clara,” she said, “on my way to California.”

“Tom,” I said, “the good news is I’m headed to Fresno.”

It was overcast and thunder rumbled in the distance, I appreciated the company, parts of the drive are boring and bleak. She said she had just bought the car from a friend but thought it might have blown head gasket. She seemed nervous and kept checking the mirrors as we entered the freeway. She noticed a pickup truck parked on the next overpass.

“Shit, shit shit,” she said as she started digging into her bag.

“What’s wrong? I said.

“Sorry to drag you into this. We’re being followed,” she said. It was a black Ford pickup with two men. Suddenly the truck was closing fast.

“What’s going on? Who are these people? Call the cops!” I shouted. Soon the truck was in the rearview mirror. She pulled a gun from her bag, chambered a round and dropped two more magazines in her lap.

“Whoa! WHAT is going on?! Call the cops!” I shouted.

“Floor it Tom, NOW! They WILL kill both of us, just floor it!” She shouted.

Soon other cars were a blur as we topped 100 then 120 and 130. But the truck was still close behind. Suddenly the rear window shattered in an explosion of glass. The bullet blew the rearview mirror off. My heart was racing and time seemed to slow. Focus. I held the throttle to the floor as the tach needle flew up.

We seemed to be losing them but traffic began to slow, there were signs for construction. I cut to the hard shoulder to pass slow moving vehicles as the car rumbled and road debris hammered the car. If I get a tire puncture we’re dead, I thought to myself. I reached over and called 911 on the phone, but she slammed her fist into the display to end the call.

“No COPS!, she shouted, “THEY are part of this!” From behind more shots rang out. In an instant she scrambled into the back seat to return fire. As we passed slow moving trucks in blur, she fired five times at the pickup truck, then shouted, “GOT HIM!”

In an instant the pickup truck blew a tire and started sliding. A fireball erupted as it slammed into a construction vehicle. I took a deep breath and slowed down. There was glass everywhere and the mirror was hanging by the wires. I was bleeding from a cut on my arm but hadn’t noticed.

“Should I pull over and let you out? I said. My mind reeling. She climbed back into the front seat and reloaded the gun. She casually aimed it at my head.

“Nothing personal, but if you stop I will shoot you and take your car,” she said.

“Then I guess I keep driving,” I said. Out of nowhere I started to laugh. She put the gun away and smiled. She started laughing as well.

“That was fucking awesome, where did you learn to drive like that? She said.

“My mom was a race car driver,” I said.

“No way,” she said.

“Are you single, Tom?” she said.

“At the moment, yes, I said.

“I’m glad you turned left at the overpass, you saved my life,” she said.