Drive In

Shapes of times quaver and mutually reflect, lightening the transcenium with sparks of gay and minuscule emphasis.

The lone hitch-hiker stands out and plucks up a number everyone knows, and collides in the atmosphere about him. Unstaggered but still moving, his generator throbs one, two more times. He's a perfect replication of the primal source, more potent and triangular than the campus that betrayed him and on which he was based.

I try to indulge every passion, even that, half-guilty and overwhelming, for a fat hamburger, onions and a shake. Meanwhile the restaurant gleams and dips out of view. I ask you for it to go, please, and you look like someone fearful of infection, as though incapable of grasping the warm view you join in this place. After guessing the age of the usher who calls intermission, you return to your neighbor who's been chewing on the rear of your seat and wade up the lights where your breath is filming in front of you. His muscles are hard as Platonic forms, his Adam's apple ruddy in the twilight gleam that tightens as the stars' names come on the screen. Outside water is cheap and uninspiring until some fascist pokes your head in it and won't let go.

Gunfighters pass like little girls around the corner to buy ice cream. The pharmacist wears magnificent lenses and gets lost in the street, listening to their thunder as they irresponsibly destroy his front windows. Soon his cerebellum is unravelled in the children's hands and my belt buckle comes undone again.

Your gaze has been electrified, you feel in touch with the music that has blended you into a semi-sour cream, tenderly melting into the cushion and trickling among the wrappers on the floor. You can't help noticing you've become a thing of gerunds finally. Your dreams embody you in the wrangling order, while your horoscope looks on impassively. I have taken over. But never ask, whatever it is you were just about to ask.