Ends crowded St. Geor

...and the clock weighs so patiently on your tongue.
it was all just a gesture, just a whimsy...i just wanted you to understand, perhaps to find some meaning pulled out of a box of poems or misheard lyrics from a rock song on that scratchy old car radio with the busted up speakers....not that it would have mattered, anyway, not for you. nothing ever does. that's why i think we're so much alike and that's why you're in the trunk of my car right now, your screams going unnoticed on this dark highway, blending in a remarkably incongruous way with the voices of god and the radio and  my own cries of jubilation and ecstasy....
if i could speak of my dreams, it would be thru your lips as you silently sing along to the radio, dancing while standing up on the front seat, you know every word and the radio plays every one of your favorite songs as we travel the desert along highway 69, stopping at every amusement park and carnival along the way where age is measured by strips of tape along an old stick...the f.b.i. and s.w.a.t  teams always hold their fire while your dancing...it's a deal i made a long time ago but you wanted to come with me anyway...you said you wanted to dance forever and the stars were in your eyes and the cactus beckoned like wise old allies and i could swear i could hear the voice of that old fox, don coyote...the trickster said turn left and the gas station would be there after a few hundred miles...i asked if you if i should trust him and you danced enigmatically and shrugged your bare tan shoulders, your pink straps slipping down slightly...the road shifts and i strain for the deleted lines of my favorite song from long ago
'the killer in me is the killer in you',
sang the black plastic radio.
the sultry beads of glistening
perspiration's salty snail trail kisses
left gritty crystals upon her scorched earth-toned seasoned flesh
as they evaporated in plumes shimmering in the haze
of meting asphalt under the eye
of a blood thirsty sun.
it was the 55th straight day
of the mercury boiling past 110°,
and water was a dream long ago, thirsty...
a white lie so fine, the gradations of black and gray and color all register
in a sort of moral apocalypse for a few moments of daylight that fade away in beating sex drums
calling the flesh tones in wild coyote songs rubbing against the steaming night thighs
screaming at the thirsty stars burning bright.
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he awoke to spasms.... with eyes that burned in jubilation of the sun rising above the cloudy haze which envelopes the stamped downward express, ending with a dizzying roller coaster ride across the bad side of the tracks to a small dirty town without a name, the locals bathing in the heavy water lead downpour see the reality show contest on their local affiliate station beaming static thru tar paper walls 1,000 toothpaste smiles at a time on their vintage analog dial tv sets as the diesel exhaust fumes linger on their skin... the moths dancing with death in one final game of chicken against the bug zapper.