Slow Trucks
There are slow trucks rumbling through the pine barrens to get you, and laughing at the devil in those woods, loaded up on enough crystal meth to rumble for days; over the snap dragons of felled phone lines, on black ice roads that span like constellations, the going is slow so they blare their horns to burn the night sky. Perpetual. When they reach you steamroller arms with grip you like the only moss that could stick to rolling stones, you will know that you are more than wanted.
But, you need to risk life amongst the trees a little longer, until you can hear the horns, mounted to every truck in the Gabriel line. We cannot save you from this rapture, but we can love you all the same.
------
I am a surrealist drifter, I love hard.
Even more life here: www.myspace.com/doesntrhymegood
