El Dia del Camino Uno

The places that are, and then, there are those places. Cracks in the seams, subtle bits of darkness flying free through the cubic walls of reality, black pavement holding true against any odds, weird white cars that whir in the night like unhinged balloons, as they float, and fall, fall, fall…..

This is the deck of cards stacked in some literal way, the true grit of the center of a southern state, the playfulness of a rubber reality with nothing but soul. Crystal empires rising in some flat humid insect filled land watching not the nest, nor the anthill, but the queen. Always the queen! And on the rotting corpses of a million ancient orange blossoms this place called Or-Lando rubs and shakes and finds corners that don’t exist. A place created as a practical joke only to embrace the joke and keep laughing.

The locals here demand exact change, and the vending machines eat dollars with such intensity that overwhelming robot greed must be ruled out, and only something supernatural and purely cruel must posses them. Oh, these nights on the road, they are a vicious toxin, and let 2011 not trick you, don’t let it lull you into thinking it’s just the weigh station before that oddly round number that means nothing in front of it. This year of 2011, twenty-ought eleven, scars the sky with sweet jet trails and betrays any loyalty all will give it.

Pulsating beams of orange light sting the orbs of any fool looking close to the interior of this matter, of this dark cold night, of these gruesome slicing days, against the pixels of matter and anti-matter, with gravity filling all and any space that confronts it. And into the wild we tin soldiers march shaped well and true. The shadows we cast not nearly as deep as the potential we try to fill in them. Red tiles of cracked rock, bleeding paintings from some distant renaissance, a palm tree stacked to neatly, like a wedding cake created with failure in mind, praying against the wind, against fire, against ice, but, yes, face them we will on this jagged crooked wench of a road, and we’ll drive over them at only our highest velocities.